


Sounds of Silence

by Sia



Series: The Renegades [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Kissing, Both Twins Live, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunken Kissing, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Making Out, POV Cullen Rutherford, Purple Hawke, Sexual Tension, Snarky Fenris, Snarky Hawke, Surprise Kissing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warden Cullen Rutherford, light humor, smart-assed remarks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Somewhat More True Account of the Adventures of the Hawke Family in Kirkwall</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fear and Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> _Welcome to the sequel of AU story _The Rescue_. While it's not necessary to have read my previous fic, it may help with a few of the characters that will be in this story, namely, Cullen. As always, I own nothing and I only gain writing XP from this. ___

Breath rasped in his throat as he fled along the broken remains of the Imperial Highway, keeping to the forests whenever possible. The scent of loam and pine and deadfall filled his gasping lungs. Three days. Three days since the signal fire had been lit and the king's army overwhelmed. Two days since he'd last eaten, finishing the short rations he'd managed to shove in his pockets right before the battle when there was no time to eat and his stomach was churning anyway. One day since the ache in his legs and feet had dulled to a dim throb and then to numbness. But Lothering was on the horizon.

He couldn't stop or he'd start to feel the pain of strained muscles. He could see the town as he crested the hill, his two-handed sword heavy on his back. He didn't know how much time he had, though, before the horde of Darkspawn surged across the Wilds.

Running up the hill to the bridge that would bring him into the town, he stopped short suddenly. Several dead bodies just lay where they'd fallen on the time-roughened stone bridge. His panting brought the stench of their rotted state to his throat and though it wasn't the worst thing he'd ever smelled, he still had to stifle his gag reflex. He covered his nose and mouth as he approached, cautiously. Several had been killed by magic from the burns on their bodies. Fear for his sisters, especially Bethany, turned his mouth dry. Heart pounding for an entirely different reason, he started running again. What had they done?

He ran down the steps to the fields surrounding the village, barely registering the the tents sprawled out in front of the defensive wall. Past the Chantry and the tiny shacks where most of the village artisans lived and plied their trades, he dodged men, women, children, all seeming to be rushing about gathering anything they could carry. Every face he passed drawn in worry and fear. Somehow, he redoubled his pace, heading for the family farm.

"Carver!" He skidded to a halt, collapsing forward slightly, his hands on his knees, his leg muscles screaming. He sucked in air, unable to raise his head for a moment. "Carver?" At the more tentative query he raised his head and generous hips, a slim waist and a torn and dirty skirt filled his view. He took a deeper breath and raise his head higher. Pale cleavage, a generous expanse of female flesh, desperately rising and falling in time with his own frantic breathing met his eyes.

"Peaches?" He managed to gasp out before she flung herself into his arms so hard he was forced to catch her and brace himself. She managed to wriggle until she could plant her lips on his, but he pushed her gently away, still unable to catch his breath. He set her on her feet and held her at arms length. "Peaches! Listen to me! Get your family and get out of here. The darkspawn are coming. Ostagar fell!"

"Oh, Carver!" She looked up at him, blue eyes wide. "I - I saw you and - I thought you were dead!" She clutched at one of his hands with both of hers and pressed his palm flat to her chest, right between her breasts. "You have to come with me! Carver, please, you have to protect me!"

Staring at where his hand had been placed, he shook his head to clear it. _Her scent, flowers and sweat, hay and earth, exertion and passion and-_. "I'll find you. I have to help my family. Go! Help yours!" With a last longing look, the girl turned and fled.

~*~

Margaret put her hands on her hips and stared incredulously at her mother. "Mother, you cannot take Father's trunk. How many times did you and he have to go on the run when we were kids? Did you forget how to pack?" The small two bedroom house was a wreck with their belongings strewn all over the few pieces of furniture in order to help the three women better sort what they absolutely needed to carry that much faster.

Leandra glared at her oldest daughter. "Your father was alive then and that was all I needed! This is all I have, now!" Margaret glared right back at her mother, biting off a retort. _What?_ We're _not enough of a reminder?_

"Mother," Bethany's kind voice intruded. _Always the peacemaker._ "We can't carry the trunk, itself. What if we took the most important things with us in our packs? And Margaret can take Father's staff." Margaret wrinkled her nose at the prospect. It was a powerful weapon, but the stylized naked woman on the top - especially since it had been carved by their father and lovingly painted a gaudy gold - had always made her uncomfortable. But, if it would get them all moving sooner...

"Fine. I'll take it and Father's old mage robe. Maybe we can make it fit one of us as we go." Quickly, Margaret threw the lid open and began sorting out their father's belongings. His old robes were tied into a bundle she could carry at the bottom of her pack until they could fix them. His staff joined hers across her back. Bethany found a small pouch at the bottom, under a sword and shield from who knew where, that contained several pieces of jewelry. Margaret held out her pack to put it in, they'd go through it later. Now wasn't the time.

"What about Carver's things?" Bethany asked, hope plain in her large brown eyes. Margaret sighed. _I guess if we don't find him, we can sell the bigger things. If we have to._ Margaret wanted the chance to mourn her brother, but had steeled herself against his survival when that tall, blond warrior claiming to be a Grey Warden survivor from Ostagar had stumbled into the Chantry with a dark haired elf mage in tow. Who somehow still seemed to do all their talking. Margaret hadn't run into a lot of elves in her time in Lothering, with it's small Alienage, and in the rural areas where they'd lived before, elves were rare. The Hawkes never had coin to hire servants or field hands. It just wasn't usually the tiny female with the staff on her back, but the large human male that negotiated with Revered Mothers.

The sound of the door slamming against the wall and a male voice shouting, "Mother!" made all three women jump where they stood. Instinctively, Margaret had her hand behind her back with a fireball ready to go before she even registered that the voice was familiar. Only one male's voice would yell like that. It took her a moment to calm the surge of adrenaline and snuff the fireball, but in the meantime, Bethany and their mother had both rushed to greet the very tall warrior that was Bethany's twin. Margaret straightened up from her defensive semi-crouch, light headed in relief, and walked to greet her brother, putting what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face, the adrenaline surging through her veins making politeness difficult. "Carver. Glad to see the rumors of your demise were premature." _Wait, that didn't sound remotely like I'd wanted it to._

His brows drew down and his eyes narrowed. _Well, that didn't take long._ "What were you going to do, leave without me?"

Bethany and Mother stepped away from Carver as he stepped closer to Margaret. Unflinchingly she met his eyes. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I was going to evacuate our mother and sister ahead of the darkspawn horde."

He blinked at Margaret. "How did you-?" She rolled her eyes and turned to finish packing.

"There were Grey Wardens." Bethany's sweeter voice spoke up. "Sister and I ran into one of them at the Chantry."

"Grey Wardens! They... they were supposed to have all died in the first wave!" Margaret turned at the sound of the surprise in his voice.

She shook her head at her brother's astonishment. "Doesn't matter, they're long gone now. Heard they're trying to raise an army. Join them if you want. I need to get Mother and Bethany to safety."

"Why, by Andraste's ass, do you think I _ran here_ from Ostagar in the first place, sister?"

"Carver! Language!"

"Sorry, Mother."

"Fine, Carver. Bethany, hand him the weapons and that shield and all the stuff we gathered for him if we ran into him on the road." Margaret didn't look up as she shoved the last of the magically enhanced jewels down deep toward the bottom of her pack, under her father's mage robes. She'd also wrapped them in her small clothes, hoping a brigand wouldn't be smart enough, or would be too squeamish, to find them. As soon as Carver got his gear settled, it was time to leave Lothering.

"So, you weren't going to leave me?" he asked, slinging the shield across his back.

"Why, by the Maker's hairy arse, would I do that?" Margaret demanded as she snapped her fingers for Hopper, her mabari, to get off his lazy backside and follow her.

"Margaret!"

"Sorry, Mother."

The family joined the exodus of refugees. The Revered Mother led her flock of widows and orphans, flanked by almost every Templar that had been in the Chantry. While Margaret had spent most of her life fleeing the Templars, and tended to view them with a wary eye, Ser Bryant was a sensible one. He took in hers and Bethany's staves with a glance and a raised eyebrow, then turned a blind eye. Working with a mage, apparently, even two apostates, was preferable to the Darkspawn. One of the older boys in the center of the ring of defenders, regaled his fellow children with the tale of how "the Grey Warden gave me a silver coin straight out of her own purse!" Margaret caught Bethany's eye and they both grinned at that.

Catching Carver's attention where he stood scanning the refugees with a worried expression on his face, she jerked her head to the rear of the column of refugees. "With the Templars in the middle, the rear's undefended. We'll likely get hit from behind, wouldn't you think, Brother?"

Carver wiped sweat out of his eyes and reluctantly pulled his eyes away from their search. _Is he actually looking for that brainless Peaches at a time like this? You're supposed to think with the bigger head, Brother Dear._ The heat of the blistering sun high over head wasn't abated by the columns of smoke that trailed upwards from the horizon behind them. He glanced backward. "You're right. We're sitting ducks."

"Let me talk to Ser Bryant. It'll do us no good to take rear guard if there's no way to warn anyone to run."

Carver nodded. "Make it a quick conversation, Sister. There's no time for flirting."

She sniffed and glared up at him. "I do not flirt with Templars."

"Of course not."

Margaret resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her younger brother as she turned to find Ser Bryant again. _See? I am adult enough to let him have the last word. I may have to point that out to him later._ "Ser Bryant?"

"Hawke?" The tall, dark haired man stepped out of the formation, his tone polite. _Courteous, even to a known apostate._ "How can I help you?"

"Actually, I was going to offer to help you." He politely inclined his head, waiting for her to continue. She cleared her throat, fear ( _Andraste's ass! I'm talking to a bloody Templar!_ ) welled up inside her and constricted her throat.

"Um, right. Well, we're awfully strung out here, Ser Bryant. My brother and I, we are going to take up the rear guard and keep a watch out for any advance scouts looking for us. How shall I signal you if we find trouble?" She clasped her hands in front of her stomach to keep herself from doing anything stupid with her fingers.

The Templar eyed her staff where it stood above her head, his eyes widened and his cheeks turned red, probably seeing the top of her second staff. "I suppose you and your brother are used to... working together?"

"Yes, Ser."

He wrenched his eyes back to meet hers and took his helmet off to run his gauntleted hand through his damp, sweaty hair. Before he could respond, though, the Revered Mother's voice sounded from behind them. "Ser Bryant, I certainly hope you're not about to refuse this girl's help just because she's an apostate?"

"Your Grace!" The Templar bowed. "I was actually about to suggest she signal with her staff as we don't have the men to spare for messenger duties. Three bursts into the air?" Margaret felt her stomach untwist at the Templar's word. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The Revered Mother turned her tired gaze to Margaret and lifted her hand with a questioning look. Obediently, Margaret knelt on one knee with her head bowed.

"Blessed are they who stand before  
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."

Margaret glanced up at the Revered Mother's odd choice for a benediction and briefly wondered if it was because of her apostate status. The old woman motioned for her to rise. "Maker go with you and Andraste watch over you, child."

Margaret bowed her head in thanks and nodded once at Ser Bryant. As she turned to walk away she heard the Templar ask, "Reverence, are you sure we can trust an apostate to walk rear guard?"

The Revered Mother's voice didn't bother to hide her annoyance. "These are her friends and family, too, Ser Bryant. She and her brother risk much. Besides, there is something about that girl..." the sentence trailed off as Margaret got too far away to hear them over the creak of wagon wheels, the lowing of oxen and the shrieks of children chasing each other through the caravan. She shook her head and dodged a little girl squealing and giggling as she ran from a boy who bore a strong resemblance to her.

Margaret found her brother and sister waiting for her at the rear of the column. While she expected Bethany, their mother's appearance was a surprise. "Mother, you should be further up in the column where the Templars can protect you."

"Thank you, sister. I kept telling her that." Carver crossed his arms and glared at their sole parent.

"Nonsense. I am not going to hide behind the Templar's skirts while my children risk their lives for us all."

It took a monumental effort of will, but Margaret did not roll her eyes at her mother. She turned to Bethany, though, and said, "And you! You shouldn't be back here either!"

The younger woman smiled, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sister, your healing magic has always been rubbish. You and Carver will need me to keep you alive if worse comes to worst." Margaret met Carver's gaze. He rolled his eyes and threw up his hands dramatically as he walked away muttering about impossible women.

Glancing from her mother to her baby sister, Margaret frowned. "I can't keep either of you from doing this, can I?" They both shook their heads. "Fine. Mother try to stay back and out of the way. You distracting us will get one of us killed. Beth, do not charge up to be with us. Stay by mother. I'd leave Hopper with you for protection, but I think Carver and I are going to need him. After all, the more Darkspawn we kill, the less make it through to you and to the refugees."

They glanced at each other. Leandra yanked Margaret off-balance and pulled her into a hug. "Be careful, Margaret. You are too much like your father." Margaret kissed her cheek in reply.

Bethany hugged her, too, and whispered, "Don't do anything stupid, big sister."

Margaret grinned. "Of course not! I like my hide in one piece, Beth!"

The four stepped out of the streaming line of refugees and waited for the column to pass by. The town's elves brought up the rear and Margaret found herself pitying them even more than the orphans. Doomed to squalor, the elves were considered the most expendable and had been the last to be evacuated. She shook her head and met Bethany's eyes, wide with compassion. There was nothing they could do, though. Just defend them from the Darkspawn.

Once the column passed, Margaret led her brother and Hopper to the end and made certain they were several yards away from Bethany and Leandra, but not so far that Beth would have trouble healing them if it came down to it. "Try not to get their blood on you, sister," Carver advised.

She glanced up at her brother. "That'll be a bit difficult, won't it?"

He frowned at her, "I'm serious. It's poison. It'll turn you into a … a..."

"A what?"

"I don't know, they didn't tell us. But the Grey Wardens gave us all pitying looks."

"Lovely." She cleared her throat. "Thanks for agreeing to help me help the villagers, Carver."

He shrugged. "They aren't all complete wastes of skin, Margaret. Besides, I want to make sure they get away, too."

"'They' wouldn't happen to include a busty farmer's daughter by the name of 'Peaches,' would they?"

"Shut up."


	2. Pigtails and Skinned Knees

It didn't take long for the advance scouts to find them. The growls and grunts were getting louder as the 'spawn approached. Margaret sent her prearranged signal up into the sky and prayed that Bryant was paying attention. "We're going to have to lead them off, Carver. There's too many. They have to believe we're all the refugees." She swallowed around her pounding heart and gripped her staff tighter to still her trembling fingers.

Carver looked around for a moment, his expression somewhat slackjawed in hopelessness. "Exactly how do we pretend to be fifty more people, Sister?"

Margaret cleared her throat, fear making her mouth dry and her stomach twist. "We're going to have to ask Mother and Beth for help."

"No." He shook his head vehemently. "We leave them with the refugees, if we must. You and I will deal with these monsters."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Brother. But Mother and Beth won't let themselves be separated from us, even for their own good."

"We don't really have time to argue, Sister." Hopper added his growl to Carver's reminder.

She could see movement through the trees. "You're right, let's go." They were out of time to discuss what they needed to do, he was right in that. But Mother and Beth wouldn't be safe separated from them for long. Beth would be taken by the Templars in no time.

"Mark this day on the calendar! Margaret The Great actually agreed with her little brother!"

"Do shut up." Margaret snapped her fingers at Hopper. When the mabari looked up at her, she told him, "Go find Mother and Bethany. Hurry." Carver made a disgusted noise in his throat as she ignored his suggestion. With a single woof, Hopper lived up to his name and bounded away. "C'mon, we'll have to make one hell of a distraction." She glanced around searching for something they could use to draw the scouts away from the refugees or at least a place where she and Carver could hold them off as long as possible.

The valley they'd entered had already been hit by the Blight. The rocks were darkened and blasted and the soil sandy and pale as if all the good dark earth had been scrubbed off it. Margaret thought briefly of the farms in Lothering and the animals that now trailed the refugees. They were better off there than left for the darkspawn. At least until the refugees got hungry. "Look, there!" She pointed to a narrow path through which they could lead the scouts and hold them off the refugees for a while. Carver nodded and headed for the gap, drawing his massive sword.

Margaret gave one last look around, trying to see if Hopper had succeeded in bringing her sister and mother. "Margaret!" She turned to look at Carver. "Are you planning on standing there to shake their hands?"

"Ugh. Shut up." She ran to join him at the mouth of the gully. Margaret stood behind Carver, her staff out and ready, every muscle tensed and waiting. The sound of claws scrabbling on the hard-packed dirt and rock behind her had her staff up and ready, a spell on her lips. Hopper came bounding around the outcrop and Margaret released the breath she'd been holding. Bethany picked her careful way across the rocks behind the exuberant mabari with their mother following behind, just as carefully, her skirt gathered primly in one hand.

"Bethany, stay back. Keep Mother safe. Hopper, stay with them." The flame-haired mage turned back to stand shoulder to shoulder with her younger brother. He swiped at the sweat trickling down his forehead with the back of his hand. As she moved to do the same, a sudden thought struck her, making her blood run to ice. _If they could get up here behind us, then so could..._ She spun slowly, her eyes searching every rock and shadow. She felt Carver turn to look at her in concern, and Beth pick up on her tension and nervously look from her to the surrounding rocks. "Oh, Maker, no," Margaret breathed. "Behind us! Run! Up the hill! Run, now!"

True to her word, she grabbed her mother's arm as she passed and dragged the other woman behind her up the hill. "Run faster, Sister!" Carver's voice, tight with strain urged her onward. Something jumped out at her and without thinking, she flung her hand up and threw the first spell she'd ever learned at the toothily grinning monstrosity that sprang out at her. It froze and fell over, encased in ice.

"Margaret!" Her mother yelled. The mage twisted and spun her staff up, charged energy crackling down the length to send another, shorter darkspawn twitching to the ground in its death throes. Hopper bounded over and hamstrung another attempting to sneak down from the rocks and when it fell, the mabari ripped its throat out for good measure.

"Run!" Caver shouted. He stormed past, Bethany's small hand crushed in his, as he dragged her after him. Margaret, for once, agreed with her brother. Her mother raced after her twins. Margaret glanced behind her to see that their distraction had apparently worked far too well in leading the bulk of the scouts away from the refugees. She turned and sprinted, Hopper racing ahead to take point as she'd trained him in their hunting forays.

They ran, engaging the ravening spawn as often as they were forced to. Bethany stayed by their mother, and Margaret often felt the cold, icy, warm, tingling wash of her sister's healing spell when one of the monsters got in a lucky hit. She and Carver fought like they hadn't in a very long time. Not since their father had begun training them to fight together as children. She ducked and threw a spell and he was there to finish off the attacking monster with a swing of his blade. Or, he'd have one nearly done and a spell from her would kill it, so he could move on to another. Hopper worried the ranks, weakening individual spawn to make them easier to take down. Backs were watched, weak spots were covered. And over all, Bethany was there, healing both of them as long as her mana held.

~*~

Carver had forgotten the last time he'd slept or ate. The world was narrowed down to his blade, the dog and his sisters and mother. His muscles ached from the repetitive impact of metal against bone and sinew and the palms of his hands were on fire - he could feel new blisters forming with each swing. They finally broke free, Bethany and Mother trailing as he and Margaret raced ahead to make sure the path was clear. "Where are we going?" Beth's voice brought him up short and he turned to look at his twin, glad for the short rest to suck air into his lungs, trying not to sway in place.

"Away from the Darkspawn. Where else?" He heard Margaret stop and turn back to them.

"And then where? We can't just wander, aimlessly. That's a good way to find more darkspawn." Carver failed at keeping the irritation out of his voice, but he was too tired to be diplomatic at this point. _Not that diplomacy was ever useful with Margaret._

"Wherever we go, we stick together. No matter what." Carver met his elder sister's eyes at her declaration, the setting sun hitting them just right and making them glow a rather eerie bright green. _I hope you're right, Sister, dear._

Mother cleared her throat. "Kirkwall. We can go to Kirkwall."

Carver felt his stomach drop into his boots with everything he'd ever heard about Kirkwall serving in the King's army. He glanced at Bethany and was about to object when Margaret beat him to it. "Kirkwall! You want to take Beth and me to the one city besides Val Royeaux where mages are more hunted than …. wyvern at an Orlesian Tea Party?" He turned the short laugh into a cough. Sometimes Margaret's comparisons were funny, but the absurd image (a wyvern in a dress seated at a table drinking tea out of an impossibly small cup) that just popped into his head could only be the result of too little sleep and no food.

Bethany frowned. "There're a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother." _Templars. Right. Avoid Templars. Father kneeling down in front of him, handing him his first blade with ceremony and gravity. "It's your job to protect your sisters, Carver. The Templars - you remember what those are, don't you?"_

_"Yes, Father." Small-Carver cleared his throat, trying to sound grown-up. "They're bad men who want to take Margaret and Beth away."_

_A kind smile creased a round face that looked far too much like his older sister's. "Well, not all of them are bad, but they all do want to take them away from us." The green eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now, are you up to the challenge of defending your sisters?"_

_He remembered squaring his small shoulders and holding that short sword close to his chest. "Yes, Father."_

Leandra looked from one daughter to the other. Carver shook his head, trying to focus. This was the stupidest idea he'd ever heard, but if it's what Mother wanted... "I know it's dangerous. But we have family there. An estate."

Carver shrugged when Bethany looked at him questioningly. This would have to be up to her and Margaret. Kirkwall wouldn't be a danger to _him_ , after all. He felt his lips pull back as Margaret looked at their sister and sighed. "Then we head for Gwaren. We'll need to take ship, there." _Why did she always give in to Mother, but when he was alive she fought with Father every second of the day?_

" _No, Father! I will not hide in the barn like some scurrying rat! The Templars know you have two daughters, if we're both missing, they'll be even more suspicious!"_

_"Margaret, you will do as I say!"_

_"Not when you're wrong I won't!" They'd stood there glaring at each other, the tension in the room thick. Leandra wrung her hands uselessly, Bethany's lips quivered as they always did when the two most stubborn people he'd ever known butted heads. Even at the age of twelve, Margaret had a mind of her own._

The warrior shook his head, again, attempting to refocus on the immediate moment, and drew his blade, resuming point. "If we survive that long. I'll just be happy to get out of here."

If he ever saw another darkspawn again, it would be too soon. They stank. They hit harder than Sergeant Mackenna in the sparring ring. Despite his getting a head start on her, Margaret soon passed him up and took point. He rolled his eyes at her competitiveness, but deep in the corners of his mind he never wanted to acknowledge, he was glad she was there. Maybe if the mages had been allowed to fight like his sister could, they wouldn't have gotten overwhelmed at Ostagar and wouldn't have needed Teryn Loghain and that stupid signal fire. _And maybe the Grey Wardens would still be alive._

_The interminable lecture on Darkspawn had already gone on forever. What could be so hard about killing monsters? You stick the pointy end of the sword in their gut and they died. Of course, he'd been naive, not that he'd know that for another day or so. So, bored, he'd let his attention wander and he spotted one of the odder sights he'd seen in the camp that day. A petite elven girl, her ears bared by a ponytail, led big blond warrior up the ramp to the top of the wall to look out over the valley. She'd gestured, her small hands waving gracefully as she talked, the man next to her nodding, asking the occasional question and interjecting his own opinion. Carver couldn't hear what they were saying, but body language was easy to interpret. Odder still, was the staff she wore openly on her back. The ornate carving at the top marked it to his more experienced eyes as something beyond the quarterstaff a farmer would wear. Was the big guy a Templar? Then he caught the symbol embossed on the warrior's shield. A griffon rampant. Grey Wardens._

_The Sergeant at that time chose to single him out. "Private Hawke! Since you apparently know all there is to know about killing Darkspawn..."_

Another small break in the trail where it widened briefly, but instead of the respite the last wider space had been, this one was overrun with more 'spawn. They were circling a man and a woman who stood back to back, weapons out and ready. He glanced at Margaret and his stomach sank into his boots. _She's going to do something stupid._

She launched herself with a yell at the crowd surrounding the pair. "Andraste's knickers, Mags!" he swore, falling back on his childhood knickname for her. He and the mabari hound caught up with her just as her outflung spell managed to incinerate a half dozen of the mob. _When did she learn that?_ And then there was no time to worry about his sister's skills, the darkspawn turned to attack them.

When he was finally able to wrench his heavy blade from the last of the twitching, stinking corpses, he turned to find his sister facing down - was that a _templar? Bloody hell!_ "Apostate! Keep your distance!" The man's eyes darted from Bethany to Margaret. Carver rolled his eyes and wondered if they'd have to kill the very people they'd just rescued.

Bethany let out a short laugh. "Well. The Maker has a sense of humor. Darkspawn - and a templar. I thought they all abandoned Lothering to flee with the refugees?"

The Templar didn't sound very healthy, however. OK, maybe it won't be too hard of a fight. "The spawn are clear in their intent, but the mage is always an unknown." He swayed slightly and his hand went to his stomach, his voice became strained. "The order dictates..."

The red-haired woman's softly interrupted, "Wesley..."

"Those women are apostates." Carver tightened his grip on his blade. He saw his older sister's hand slowly start reaching behind her for her staff. "The Order dictates..."

"Dear, they saved us," the woman interrupted again. Whoever she was, Carver hoped she could talk the Templar down. "The Maker understands."

The Templar's shoulders slumped and he nodded and backed away. "Of course." Carver tried not to be too obvious in letting out the breath he'd been holding. She introduced herself as Aveline Vallen and the Templar was Ser Wesley. Carver ignored most of the conversation, trying to get his fatigue-sodden brain to pay attention to their surroundings, until... "-North is cut off. We barely escaped the main body of the horde."

Frustration and fear surged through him. "Then - We're trapped! The Wilds are to the South! That's no way out!" Mother let out a sob behind him.

The sound seemed to make Margaret's jaw set. "Then we have no choice. The darkspawn have us fenced in. We go South." The sound he'd been hearing most of the afternoon finally made sense and he turned to face north. He rushed to the side of the path for a better view. Flames shot high into the air, sending billowing plumes of smoke skyward, reaching for the hazy sun. _Maker. Peaches! The refugees!_ He hoped Ser Bryant got them around that, or they'd be walking right into a warzone. He met his mother's horrified eyes and they both turned to follow Margaret.

They climbed a short hill and reached a break in the craggy rocks again. But no sooner had they paused to catch their breath, then the ground began to shake beneath their feet. Margaret stumbled into him and he sat her on her feet as Bethany led their mother to what looked like a safe spot. _Good idea, Beth. Get her out of the way. This looks like a wonderful place for an ambush. And not in our favor._ He stumbled, the ground seeming to buck under his feet. _What in the Void is making the ground shake?_ He bounced off Margaret and into the red-haired warrior woman who pushed him back onto his feet.

The biggest, ugliest darkspawn - _that has to be what that is, nothing normal could ever look like that_ \- with two-foot horns sprouting out of either side of its head, it's massive gray-ish purple chest bare to the hips where a scrap of rough fur was mercifully belted across its waist came charging over the rise at them. Spittle flew from its jaws as it roared in defiance. To his left, he heard Margaret start a litany of cuss words that would have made the most hardened sergeant in the King's Army blush scarlet. Maker's breath, what is that thing?

The world slowed to a crawl, Carver couldn't seem to make his arms move fast enough to bring his sword up to charge. Bethany turned - _turn faster, run, Bethany!_ \- her eyes widening at the monster bearing down on her and their mother. Margaret's staff spun, but the energy that erupted from the end flew as if the air was trying to hold it back. "Maker, give me strength!" Bethany cried as she shoved their mother back, the older woman falling onto her rear end with a sharp cry as the young mage gathered her strength for a spell.

Wesley was there, suddenly, the ill Templar. Knocking his twin out of the way. Aveline yelled her husband's name, rushing toward him, but she was too late. And then the world came back into focus as the monster wrapped one horrid paw around the Templar's waist and scooped him up like a rag doll. And like a child with a toy, it slammed the warrior's body into the ground repeatedly, each time with a more sickening crunching sound than the last, Wesley's broken body no longer fighting the thing's grip. Carver, startled at the sacrifice, a Templar, giving his life for a mage, felt the world narrow down to just himself and that … that _thing_ as rage stronger than anything he'd ever felt before filled him, twisted his stomach and pumped fire though his veins. His fatigue vanished and he leaped at the massive darkspawn, bringing his sword up to avenge the broken man.


	3. Missing A Limb

Margaret Hawke fell to her knees next to Aveline's husband. The stinking monster's corpse that killed him lay a few feet away. It had smelled awful while attacking them, and death hardly improved that condition. The Templar's face stared up at the sky sightlessly, his nose and lips bloodied, a cheekbone shattered. Both arms were broken where the warrior had tried to cushion his head against the ground, but the force of the attack had rendered it a futile gesture. With shaking fingers she reached out to close the man's eyes.

She turned to look at her sister who met her eyes in shock. A _Templar_ gave his life for an _Apostate._ Their mother had thrown her arms around the young woman and was sobbing dramatically into Bethany's hair. Carver still stood stunned, darkspawn blood dripping from his sword. Aveline... the tall woman's jaw clenched and unclenched. Hawke did the only thing, she could think to do. She offered her hand to the tall fighter. Aveline moved her agonized gaze to Hawke and yanked the mage to her feet, hugging her. Hawke hung on, sparing a prayer to the Maker for his mercy and Andraste for her intercession.

_Tucking her baby sister into bed after telling her a story about princes and princesses and tall towers, Margaret brushed a lock of dark hair off the girl's forehead. Sleepily, the five-year-old girl snuggled further into her blankets and whispered, "Love you, Mags."_

_Playing hide and seek after the chores and lessons were done for the day, Margaret chased Bethany back to the home "base," the front door. Beth looked back, her mouth open in laughter, her hair streaming behind her, her cheeks flushed in the cool autumn air._

_There was a doll they both wanted. It had been given to Margaret with the expectation that she share, but Beth had hogged it all day. Both had one arm and were tugging it between them, yelling at each other. "Mine!" Margaret felt a rush of heat - to this day, she wasn't sure if she did it, or if Bethany had - and the doll burst into flames._

Mother's punishment had been swift. Father's had been severe. Mother's had centered around the destruction of the doll. Father had been more concerned with the uncontrolled surge of magic. Mother sent them to bed without supper. Father had them summon fire repeatedly until they were leaning on each other and panting in exhaustion. It had been a very long time until either of them could light a candle without flinching.

And now... Bethany still lived because of a Templar's sacrifice. Margaret clung to the man's widow.

Aveline stepped away and dried her tears. She cleared her throat and spoke the words. "Ashes we were, and ashes we become. Maker, give my husband a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace he has found in eternity."

Margaret stared down at the ground, her mother and Beth stood up and joined them at the Templar's side. "We will never forget you, Ser Wesley."

Margaret, loathe to drag Aveline away from mourning, but there were still darkspawn coming, stood and put her hand on the new widow's shoulder. "Our lives are more valuable to him than our prayers. We should go."

"I -- we can't leave him like this!" Moving Aveline was almost like moving a wall.

"Aveline! We cannot stay here!" Carver shouted, completely ignoring all tact. "For once I agree with Maggie. We have to go! Now!"

"Oh, no!" Bethany cried. "We're too late." Margaret turned to the sound of her sister unlimbering her staff. Aveline turned and drew her sword, waking up from her grief. Bethany nodded in mother's direction. "Go, I'll watch after her, and I'll stay out of the way of the really big ones this time."

Numb, Hawke nodded as she also unlimbered her staff. Maker, how she hated Darkspawn. They kept coming. Incessantly and constantly. Margaret and her small band were beaten back to the corner of the clearing, Margaret in between the two warriors, Aveline and Carver cutting down all that made it past her spells, Hopper leaping from foe to foe, putting his teeth and claws to good use.

But it still wasn't enough. Margaret was breathing heavy, every swing of her staff getting slower, more difficult. Carver's and Aveline's breathing sounded labored as well, and Hopper was barely able to close his mouth long enough to bite the darkspawn, he was panting so much. _I'm going to need to dose him with andraste's grace if we get out of this, or he'll get sick._ She stabbed a taller 'spawn through the chest with the end of her staff.

"There's no end to them!" Carver panted.

"Just keep fighting!" Aveline yelled.

A low, earth-rumbling growl made the monsters pause and look up. Margaret watched in confusion as they seemed to back up and start running the other direction. Hopper, too tired to even give chase, dropped onto his haunches with a whine as the humans looked up, following the ominous roaring overhead. Margaret felt her exhausted limbs freeze in terror at the sight of the creature that shouldn't exist swooping down from above to ignite and rend the darkspawn.

And then, impossibly, it landed. And turned into an older, horned woman who strutted toward them as if she were one of the slatterns that haunted Dane's Refuge. Unnecessarily, Carver muttered, "Be careful, sister. I wouldn't want her to change back into a dragon and decide we would be good for dessert."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Duly noted, brother."

~*~

All in all, being rescued by a dragon was overshadowed by Wesley's sacrifice. Carver glared at the old woman. With that much magic at her disposal, surely the old witch could have arrived sooner? The old woman did take one look at the corpse and laugh, though. A great long, laugh. Margaret and Carver both had to hold Aveline back. "What is so funny?"

"Why... A Templar sacrificing himself for an Apostate? When that Templar is already dying of the taint? Well, it seems your Maker has a sense of humor after all!" Aveline stopped struggling after that.

She asked one question, "How do you know? That he was dying, I mean. Surely there was something that --"

"Oh ho! No, the only thing that could have been done died at Ostagar. And the only two left of that Order are far beyond your reach, and have far bigger concerns right now." She looked directly at Margaret. "And I think that this little wrinkle, right here... has just caused several giant ripples in the pond. It will be very interesting to see what happens when they reach the shore." 

The witch, however, was true to her word; though after burning Wesley's body on an impromptu pyre, the march to Gwaren was solemn. Carver lay awake almost every night under the stars staring up wondering at the Maker's sense of humor. A Templar had let his sister stay with them.

Aveline mourned. Quietly. That was to be expected. He could tell in the little while he'd known them, she'd loved her husband. He heard her tell Margaret one night that, "It's the constant feeling of having lost or forgotten something important. As if I've set something down, and I can't remember what, or where, and then it'll hit me all over again. Or I'll remember something, or want to tell him something and only see you or your brother." Margaret had nodded and murmured something about feeling similarly when their father died.

Carver, did his best, however, to just stay near Beth as much as possible. He knew how close he'd come to losing his twin. But he held his tongue since their mother seemed to be doing her best to make sure Margaret knew it was her fault Wesley had died, that Aveline was now a widow. His sister hadn't spoken to anyone but Aveline since the Ogre except to pester the witch for magic lessons. She ignored her brother and sister and avoided her mother's haranguing. Not that Carver could blame her.

"I- I'm sorry for your husband," Carver did manage to stammer out, one night over the campfire.

"And I for your father."

And that was all that could be said on the subject.

Two days from Gwaren, though, Leandra and Margaret, the anger and resentment and blame boiled over. He missed what offhand comment had started it, but the two of them went on the offensive immediately. "How dare you blame me, mother! I did everything I could!"

"You didn't do enough! You're the eldest! It's your responsibility to lead! How could you!"

"If you'd stayed back like you were told, she wouldn't have had to defend you! And then Wesley wouldn't have had to defend her!" Margaret's teeth were clenched and he caught the scent of singed ozone which meant she was doing her best to reign in her temper before it sent her magic spiralling out of control.

"If you were looking out for her, she'd -!" Leandra clamped her hands over her mouth.

"I'd what, mother? Still be here?" Beth stepped into the middle of their argument, plainly tired of the constant sniping. "Margaret had nothing to do with what happened. Do not trample on Aveline's grief by shouting at Margaret about something her husband chose to do!"

"Thank you, Beth." Margaret's voice cracked. In that brief moment, Carver actually hated their mother. He dropped the kindling loudly and all three women turned to him.

"I think Beth has a point."

With last glare at Leandra, Margaret grabbed her cloak and stormed to the edge of the firelight, facing outward. "I take first watch."

He turned to Leandra. "Mother?"

Leandra's only response was to burst into tears and throw herself onto the sleeping pallet she'd made from their father's cloak. Carver rolled his eyes. Aveline sighed and bent to straighten up from the sparse meal of hard cheese and harder bread they'd managed to choke down. "I was wondering how much longer they'd keep all that in," the red head remarked.

"It doesn't take long for Mother and Margaret to pick a fight with one another." He sighed. He was almost used to being outnumbered.

Beth sat down next to Aveline. "Mother's never really happy with much Mags does. I've never really been able to figure out why." She dropped her voice. "In the morning, the Blight will be Mags' fault."

Aveline shook her head. "That's not good."

"No, but that's mother and Margaret," Carver shrugged. He looked around, "Where did the witch go?"

Aveline added kindling to the small fire and shrugged. "She mentioned making sure the next two days were uneventful and then took off. Hope that means she's decided she's tired of our company."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

~*~

"I'm worried you and Aveline will get arrested for desertion, Carver." Margaret ran her fingers through her short hair. She had that look on her face that meant she was frustrated and might start hitting things. Carver was far too familiar with that look.

"You let me and Aveline worry about me and Aveline, Sister. You're going to have enough trouble trying to convince a ship captain that Hopper won't muck up his nice ship. And keeping you and Beth away from curious Templars." Carver leaned against the external wall of the shelter they were staying in. There were no rooms in the inns left, so the mayor of Gwaren, left to run things in the Teryn's absence, had set up temporary shelters for the refugees. They were crowded and stinking and the furthest thing from private as possible. That didn't really stop some of the activities he'd heard last night, though. From the circles under his sister's eyes, she hadn't slept much either.

"Guess we'll just have to find a Fereldan ship captain."

Carver scowled. "We should have talked the witch into getting us to Kirkwall direct. Save us having to scrounge for a ship."

"Cheer up, Brother. Maybe you can find a nice farm girl to settle down with and raise a dozen brats. Just make sure she's not the kind to like public romps in refugee shelters." Margaret's green eyes were agate hard. _What in the Maker's name have I done to piss her off this time? Andraste's ass. Where did Beth run off too? She can interpret Margaret-speak._

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nevermind. I'm going to walk Hopper." She snapped her fingers and strode away as the dog bounded after her.

Aveline's voice sounded behind him. "I think she thinks that was you last night."

Carver snorted. "She has a high opinion of my charm, then, to land a tumble within a night of arriving."

One straight red eyebrow merely canted upward. "She mentioned 'peaches.' Not sure what that has to do with anything."

Carver felt the heat start in his neck and make its way to the top of his head. "Maker save me from meddling sisters! No, it wasn't me!" He looked away, trying to calm his blush. "But I was far too close to the tit who was. Bastard and his wench kept me awake, too."

"Hmm. Right. Perhaps you should tell Hawke that."

"I don't know. Maybe." He waved in her general direction and stormed away. He wasn't sure where he was going to go, just away from his family and Aveline for a while. Gwaren, unfortunately, wasn't a large town. It didn't take him long to run into his sister at the docks, her short red hair standing away from her scalp in sweaty streaks, her pale cheeks flushed. "What in Andraste's name happened to you?"

"Shut up."

"I will not. What did you do?"

She glared up at him. "They tried to recruit me for the army. They were also asking about you and Beth and Aveline. Apparently, our entrance to the city didn't go unnoticed."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I did what I had to do, Brother. Drop it." She pushed past him and he grabbed her upper arm. _What if they reported her or Beth to the Templars?_

She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. "I didn't use magic." His eyes widened. "And I didn't fuck them either."

"I wasn't -"

She gave him the same irritating wave he'd just given Aveline and stormed off. _We'd better find a ship soon._

"Dammit, Maggie, wait!"

She stopped and turned. "What? I can't believe you'd... you'd do that so soon after we got here..." She blinked and looked away, her face turning redder.

He felt like steam was going to come boiling out of his ears, his heart was pounding so much in anger at her. "I. Didn't. But it's clear you've made up your mind about it. I'm not going to bother changing it." He crossed his arms and glared at her. "Did you at least find a boat?"

"No."

"Do you want my help?" She looked up at him and for a moment he was five and she was twelve and he was following her around trying to help her with her chores, carrying a too-big pile of kindling because Maggie had asked him to because she was carrying an even bigger pile of laundry.

She let out a breath and her shoulders slumped. "I'd like that."


	4. Hurry Up And Wait

It had taken all of their gold, her abilities to charm people, a lot of Bethany's smiles, and a bit of Carver’s bullying to finally get on a ship bound for Kirkwall. Of course, now they were stuck in a hold for two weeks in storm season with about a hundred others in their same situation. Margaret Hawke stared up at the iron grey sky through the hold vent and tried very hard not to miss the farm too much and keep from losing the scant amount she’d eaten for breakfast. 

And Carver was, of course, complaining. “I’m and sick and tired of being on this Maker forsaken boat.”

“So are we all, Carver,” Aveline muttered leaning her head against the base of the mast.

“I’m sick and tired of hearing you complain about being on this Maker forsaken boat.” Hawke scuffed her feet against the damp wood. Hopper whined and rolled over on his back, asking for a tummy rub. “I know, boy, you’re tired of it, too.”

“The way you spoil that dog...” Leandra muttered.

Hawke didn’t bother looking up. “He’s not a dog. He’s a mabari.” 

“He’s a dog. He’s just a smart one.” Bethany smiled, and rubbed his tummy, earning a tail thump. But it wasn't quite what he wanted. Hopper whined and nudged Hawke’s knee with his nose. 

“I swear you pay more attention to that dog than your own family.” Caver’s voice was the ugly tone he usually reserved when he wanted to pick a fight with her. Hawke just didn’t have the energy.

“Perhaps because the dog is grateful.” Aveline muttered without opening her eyes. Hawke ducked her head to hide her grin. Any appreciation would just fan the flames of his ire and much as he needed to be taken down a peg, she really didn’t have the energy. Her dreams had been troubling last night. She’d recognized the signs of having wandered into the Fade. She also remembered an especially persistent demon that kept trying to ensnare her by pretending to be her father. She felt Beth lean her head on her shoulder and entwine her fingers with hers. _Maker thank you for sparing her_ , Hawke prayed, briefly.

She shook off the memory of the bizarre dream. Dwelling now would just invite the demons back the next time she closed her eyes. She wanted, badly, to go up on deck and feel the wind in her hair and the sun on her skin, but the captain had made himself abundantly clear: no refugees on deck. So, she sat down with her back against the hull, Bethany next to her, and scratched Hopper’s ears as he flopped down between them, his tongue lolling happily. He didn’t care where he was, as long as his tummy got rubbed.

The time below decks dragged. The captain allowed them all up on deck eventually, after it seemed that the worst of the storms had passed. Hawke hoped the ability to stretch their legs would help everyone’s foul temper. Carver was, of course, first up on deck followed by their mother. Beth went with her, listening gravely to Leandra's litany of complaints about how terrible the boat was. Hawke rubbed her forehead. She was sure by the time Beth was on deck, her mother would find a way to blame them being stuck in the hold on her. She and Aveline hung back, letting a few of the other passengers go first, Hopper panting happily at the prospect of fresh air. “Get away from her! You sniveling, lying sack of pig shit!” Meeting Aveline’s eyes, she then turned to see what the yelling was about. A much larger man shoved a smaller one away from a young woman. “She don’ need you, see?” 

“Tom!” The girl clasped her hands around the bigger guy’s arm. Hawke couldn’t tell if she was trying to restrain him or hang on for dear life. “Tom, please! Don’t hurt him! He was only asking about --”

“I don’t care what he was askin’ about!” The big guy roared. 

“Now, wait just one second --” The smaller guy finally piped up in a slight accent Hawke couldn’t place. “I haven’t done anything wrong --!”

Hawke took a step toward the group when the bigger guy grabbed the skinny one by the shirt. “Now, listen here you slimy, little...”

“Excuse me,” she interrupted. “I can’t help but overhear all this trouble. Is everything all right? Do I need to get the bo’sun or perhaps the captain?”

“You ain’t gotta get nobody!” Tiny -- the nickname she’d given to the bigger man -- snarled. Hopper growled a warning and she waved him back. The last thing they needed right now was a cry of “Vicious dog!”

Hawke put her hands up. “Ok, ok... can you put him down, then?” 

With a snarl, Tiny dropped the skinny guy on his ass. “Fine... but keep this nug-humper away from my wife!” Tiny stormed past, his wife hanging on to his arm. She mouthed a grateful, _Thank you!_ over her shoulder.

Aveline helped the smaller man to his feet. “Thank you, Serra...?” He prompted with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

“Vallen. This is Hawke.” The taller nodded her head to Hawke.. 

“Thank you for coming to my rescue. I had no idea that woman was married!”

Hawke glanced at Aveline who rolled her eyes. “Did she tell you to go away?” Aveline asked. 

“Well, yes.” The thin man’s eyebrows rose and his eyes widened. 

“Then you should have left her alone.” Anger flushed through her in a raging fire and she could feel her face heat in anger. It took a great deal of self control to not punch the slimy guy’s face in. Hawke pointed out and turned on her heel to go above deck, Aveline ahead of her, Hopper between them.

“But all I was doing was being nice!” Hawke stopped, a retort on her lips, but Aveline beat her to it. 

“It doesn’t matter how nice you are. If someone says go away, you go away.”

Hawke looked over her shoulder at the man who was now scowling, “If I catch you being ‘nice’ to someone else before we get to Kirkwall, you’ll deal with me.”

“You can’t --”

She turned fully towards him, her hands balled against her sides, trying to control her temper before she started leaking magic all over the deck. She heard Hopper’s quiet growl start up in his throat.. She’d run into too many like this man in Lothering. A lot of them were trying to be “nice” to Leandra. And then to her and to Bethany. “Watch me.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” the man said, grabbing Hawke’s elbow. Hopper’s growl got louder and the big dog started to push past her. With one hand on Hopper’s head to keep him from ripping the guy’s throat out, she turned and looked at the man’s hand and then back at his narrow, pinched face. Something in her expression, or maybe it was the hulking mabari, must have frightened him because he let go and took a step back.

“I don’t know where you’re from, but you do not touch a Fereldan woman without her permission.”

“I just... thanks.” The man swallowed and looked down at the deck flooring.

“Don’t mention it,” Aveline answered, her heavy boots climbing the steps to the deck. Hawke gave the jerk one last glare and followed her friend, Hopper following slowly, casting baleful glances behind him at the “friendly” man.

They’d just reached the top of the stairs when people began pushing past them to get back into the hold. Carver, Bethany, and mother were in the first group. He jerked his head at Aveline and reached past her to grab Hawke’s arm. “Another storm. But we’re almost to port.” 

She nodded and gave one last look at the darkening sky before heading back below decks. Carver nudged her at the same time that Aveline peeled off to sit with Leandra, Beth beside her. “What’s his problem?”

Hawke glanced in the direction Carver indicated. Skinny guy was glaring from her to Tiny and his wife. She couldn’t decide who he looked more pissed off with. “Oh, him. He tried to get real friendly with a passenger. Her husband took exception. I interfered.”

Carver raised an eyebrow, “Can you ever just leave people to solve their own problems?”

“Can you ever stop judging me?” She demanded, glaring back.

He stopped for a moment. “That’s not judging, sister. One of these days, helping people is going to get you into serious trouble.”

She snorted and crossed her arms. “What am I supposed to do? Let them kill each other? Get us all locked down here indefinitely if the captain takes exception to someone’s violence?”

He frowned. “At least wait till I’m there to back you up.”

“Hopper and Aveline were there,” she told him, rolling her eyes. “I had quite a bit of backup.”

“You really trust her that much?” 

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“You just met her and her husband sacrificed himself for Beth. I’m surprised she’s not wanted revenge.”

Hawke glared at her brother. “You have a nasty, suspicious mind.” 

“No, sister, I’ve been paying attention.”

~*~

Carver was glad to finally get off the boat. The stench of the unwashed refugees, trapped in their own mess for weeks on end, the damp decking, the rotting fish smell of the hold, he was certain he’d never stop smelling it all every time he inhaled.

And then his worn boots scuffed onto the stones of the Gallows and he inhaled Kirkwall. Humidity, more dead fish, more unwashed bodies, with the undercurrent of rotting food suddenly made the hold smell like heaven. He felt someone pound on his back and finished moving forward up the gangplank. “You make a better wall than a doorway, Brother,” Margaret muttered behind him. 

He glanced down and back toward her, “Shouldn’t be so short, sister.”

She glared at him, “Just get out of the way.” She shoved past him, Mother and Bethany following her. Beth shook her head at him. The mabari bounded after both. He shook his head as Aveline joined with him. 

“A lot of energy, your sister.”

“Very exhausting.” 

“She and your mother are a lot alike.”

He stifled a laugh, “Never tell either of them that.”

She had to laugh in response, “No, I don’t suppose that would be wise.” The two of them caught up to Hawke in time to see her turning away from the guard, a murderous look on her face. 

“Uh-oh. Now what?” 

“We’re all scum and dog-lords and they’re not letting anyone into the city unless they have business here.” His sister looked angry enough to call down lightning on the whole city without breaking a sweat. Fortunately, she had better control than that. He caught a spark shoot from one hand before she clenched her fist. Bethany took her hand and held it in both of hers, rubbing the back of Margaret's hand with her open palm. It seemed to be a soothing trick the sisters did for each other to help get their emotions under control when their magic threatened to overwhelmed them. It usually worked rather well. 

Usually.

She pulled out her hand out of Bethany's and spun on her heel to head deeper into the Gallows, the shadows seeming to swallow her up. Only the torch light glinting off her red hair leading the way. Mother, Beth, and Hopper scrambled to follow her and he and Aveline followed at a slower pace. Truth be told, he was finding it difficult to function in the humidity. He felt as if his sweat wasn’t even bothering to dry, just puddle in his boots. 

“So, tell me, Carver, how did your family escape Lothering? Almost everyone who hadn’t fled...”

Carver turned to look at the red haired woman, “My older sister. If she wasn’t with us, helping us and the refugees, getting Mother and Bethany out of the house, I don’t think we’d be here.”

Aveline frowned. “But, you seem quite skilled as well. You wouldn’t have been able to do that?”

Carver shrugged, turning his attention back to trying to find his sister in the gloom of the Gallows amidst the crowd, “I’m not my sister. She... pushes. And gets people moving, even when they don’t want to.”

The soldier’s voice was wry, “So I’ve noticed.” Carver shook his head at himself. He’d not spoken so glowingly of his sister in quite some time, he realized. He hated giving her credit for her talents because they so often eclipsed his own. He should, he knew, just be glad for her and love her and appreciate her. But, he was smart enough to know that he had talent and capability as much as any man. He just... didn’t have as much as she.

And it bothered him. But, what he’d said was true. He’d never have gotten his mother and sister out on his own. Nor would he have distracted the Darkspawn enough to let the refugees get away. It was all Hawke. All Maggie. He couldn’t keep the scowl off his face as he finally caught up to her. 

“What?” She asked, concerned.

“Nothing.” It came out surly, short. He was really not proud of that. Beth stepped on his foot. Hard. He stuck his tongue out at her. 

“Fine.” She turned back to the guard she’d been arguing with, but the heavily armed men that had surrounded them wearing what looked like tattered Ferelden army uniforms started shouting at the man and then attacked them all. Without thinking, Carver’s sword was in his hand and he was back to back with Aveline, his sisters doing what they could using their staves mundanely with Hopper hamstringing anyone he could get his teeth into. Fortunately, Hawke and Bethany kept their magic under wraps and didn’t once use it, just beat the attackers the traditional way. Father had always said a good staff could take out anything short of an expert swordsman if used properly. Good thing both of his sisters had paid attention to those lessons as well. _And good thing these idiots were far from expert._ He finished off the last archer and wiped his blade with the fellow’s tunic.

He walked back to find Hawke wiping the blood off her face with a rag Aveline had handed her, she passed it to Bethany who made a face, then used the side Hawke hadn't. “Three days. Three bloody, Maker-forsaken days while he tries to find Gamlen.” She sighed. “At least he’s actually going to look instead of sitting on his arse hoping Gamlen wanders down to the Gallows for tea and cakes.” 

“Well, you did save his life.” Aveline pointed out. “Those men would have attacked him sooner or later. Whether we were there or not.”

“True, they really didn’t look like they were taking ‘no’ for an answer,” Hawke drawled.

“So... how do we hide you two under the Templar’s noses for three days, Maggie?” Carver asked. 

“Idiot,” Hawke hissed at him. Bethany stared at him open-mouthed as if he'd just done something colossally stupid. After giving an apologetic look in Leandra’s direction at her sharp scowl, Hawke gestured them all over to a quiet corner. “Look, we can control ourselves. We've had a lot of practice. Just... don’t be an idiot and say the ‘m’ word, all right?” 

Aveline glared at him, too. “ _I_ won’t say a word, Hawke.” The soldier unslung her sword and shield and threw herself down to sit on the stone and lean against the wall, her weapons close at hand. 

Leandra just shook her head at her children and went to see what she could find for food. Carver unslung his sword and followed Aveline’s example while Hawke paced up and down in front of them. His sister was never still. Ever. Beth looked from Carver to Hawke to Leandra. "I'm going to help mother." Hawke nodded. Bethany kissed her on the cheek and followed their mother. Sometimes, it was startling to realize his oldest sister was actually shorter than both of them. He leaned his head back against the stone. 

Three days. Maker, it was going to be a long three days. 


	5. Employment Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only one tiny spoiler per Cullen regarding Dragon Age: Inquisition in this chapter: his full name. But since this whole thing is AU... the sky's the limit... right?

Joining Athenril’s crew had been a mistake, but the only decision they’d been able to make at the time given their options. It had been over a year of long hours, dangerous work and the Templars had barely been kept away by the smuggling crews’ bribes. Athenril had rolled her eyes and laughed when Hawke had expressed a concern about bribing Templars. “The good thing about addicts is, they always want more of what they’re addicted to.” But, even despite the pay-offs, Hawke and Bethany had had to duck behind Carver’s broad back more often than either one would have liked, drawing a cloak tight across their shoulders or up over short-cropped copper hair, or tucking long brown hair into an even deeper hood. To add insult to injury, this last month had been a load of excuses and, “Just one more job, I promise,” out of the elven smuggler.

“This is the last job, right?” Carver demanded, pushing the shallow-bottomed skiff into the reeds. Margaret Hawke widened her stance as the tiny boat rocked when it hit the water. She settled cross-legged into the bow to steady the craft as her brother leaped in after her with a smooth, practiced motion. She felt a bit naked without Hopper, but the mabari war hound didn’t do well in small boats. Bethany had tried to come, but at the last minute, Mother found reason after reason for her youngest to remain home. In the end, Bethany had relented and bolted the door behind them as they left.

“I promise. Last job. We’re actually being paid for this one.” Margaret grinned as the sunset light showed Carver’s eyebrows raise into his hairline.

“Surely not by Athenril!” 

“Of course not. Payment on pickup. We give her twenty percent for a finder’s fee.” 

Carver groaned. “It’s up to twenty percent now? Why is she even bothering to pay us?”

“Hey, I talked her down from fifty!” That seemed to set off a coughing fit from her brother. “What? I was very charming!” A sharp pinch in neck followed by another alerted her to the fact that they’d reached the beginning of the marshes. She slapped at the insects trying to make a meal out of her neck and wished she’d worn her hair down. She'd begun growing it out these last few months and it was finally long enough to tie up. Much to Mother's relief.

“Can’t you do something about these Maker-forsaken insects?” Carver demanded, making the small boat sway as he waved his free hand energetically at the cloud of bitemes they’d just floated through.

Margaret pulled the hood of her cloak up and took up the second oar; maybe if they both paddled, they’d get out of the muck faster. “Sure, and every Templar in a hundred miles will come and investigate.” 

She ignored Carver’s muttered response, but she was pretty sure it involved the words delicate, mage, flower, fucking, and Templars. She looked back at her brother and winced as she felt the boat jerk when he violently slapped at one of the annoying insects. “I hate the Wounded Coast,” he muttered. “Who wounded it? Another bloody mage?” She rolled her eyes and gave in, casting the tiny insect repelling spell she’d thought up as a child, the mana expenditure minimal. Hopefully the Templars wouldn’t notice and turned back around. She didn’t bother casting it on herself. Once was enough of a risk. She could heal herself when they got back to town and her magic got lost in the general fog of escaped apostates and Mage Circle use that seemed to pervade Kirkwall.

She resisted the urge to slap at another sharp pinch on her forearm. Hawke hoped they arrived at the rendezvous point soon. The swiftly dimming twilight was bringing the bitemes out in force. Pulling in her oar, she unpacked the small lantern and deftly struck a tiny flame with the flint and tinder they’d bought. She felt stupid doing it, but there was no way she was going to risk even enough mana to light a lantern, not after the bug repellent spell.

“Thank you,” came the sullen response when he realized the insects had left him alone. 

“You’re welcome.”

“How much farther?” The oars kept up their steady splash in and out of the water. She had to hand it to her brother, he was certainly strong. She barely needed to help. Though, she reasoned, she might need to reserve her strength for the trip back when Carver was tired and the skiff’s population had increased by one.

“Another five miles or so? We’re headed for the beach on the other side of that outcropping then about a mile inland.” Hawke settled the oar back into its housing.

“You have got to be kidding. We have to walk after this, too? In the dark?”

“You afraid, Carver?”

“Bloody hell, Maggie, shut up! I’m tired is what I am! You could help, you know!”

She turned slightly to look at him. “Lower your voice!” She hissed. “You know how sound carries over water!” He ducked his head guiltily and glanced around. “I figured I’d row back. You know, when we have a passenger? And you’ll have to look out for _interference_.”

“Oh. Okay. Um. Good idea.” For once, he shut up. She strained her eyes in the gathering gloom, watching out for obstacles in the water the skiff might fetch up against as well as attempting to keep track of how far away the rock outcropping was. It wasn’t unusual to sit silently in a boat, heading for a rendezvous with her brother. After all, the entire point of smuggling was to not get caught. But, they usually had Beth or others in the boat with them to mitigate their usual tension. He wouldn't ever come out and say it, but she knew some part of him blamed her somehow for their circumstances. And not a single part of her disagreed with him.

Carver was someone she always found it difficult to sit in silence with. Except when they were working. Somehow, the rivalry and the animosity faded into the background and all that mattered was the job. She tensed, a light shown in the distance, almost where they would land the boat. “Do you see that?”

“Yes. Andraste’s knickers, why can’t anything go right for once?” The soft splash of the oars lessened slightly as he let the boat glide silently. Hawke crouched lower in the prow and tried not to overbalance the vessel as she peered ahead. Carver gently steered them closer to the limestone cliffs until she could reach out and touch the rocky walls. They still radiated the heat from the summer day and felt warm against her hands. She pushed against the wall, helping Carver to avoid bumping the cliff face, the rough surface scraping her fingertips where they emerged from her gloves she’d cut the ends off of. 

The light grew brighter as they neared and gently splashed up against the reeds lining the narrow beach. Voices accompanied the light. “Yer ‘informant’ lied! There ain’t no mages here,” a male’s voice spoke loudly into the night.

“They’re meetin’ ‘ere. All’s we gotta do is be quiet, you nitwit!” another voice hissed loudly. The light was suddenly snuffed.  
Hawke looked back over her shoulder at her brother. “Damned bounty hunters,” she whispered a lot more successfully than the idiots attempting an ambush.

“How the hell did they know? Maker take Athenril and her crew! I knew it was only a matter of time before one of those assholes tried to make a profit off you.” He whispered back, his youthful features twisted in anger. Hawke knew if he wasn’t rowing, his hand would be the on hilt of the huge sword on his back. 

“We’re leaving the crew. It’d make sense. Athenril wants one last pay off from us and you know the mage bounty’s higher than whatever we’re getting from this job.” They’d reached the shallows now. She carefully jumped from the boat with ease, no more than a small splash to give her away.

“Be careful, sister, they’ll have magebane.” Carver followed her lead and also jumped into the water and helped her anchor the skiff to a bush clinging precariously to the cliff face. Dragging it further in would only alert the bounty hunters to their presence. It was going to be difficult enough to wade to shore silently.

Of course, that was before someone lit up the twilight with a lightning show. The goosebumps on Hawke’s arms and the sudden chill down her back could only mean a mage was involved. Without checking to see if Carver followed her, Hawke sprinted through the water, splashing without regard for the noise. Her heart pounded in her ears and an icy lump formed in her throat as fear goaded her forward. Could the unknown mage hold them off? Would she be in time to rescue them? _To the Void with mage hunters!_

She pushed her way to shore through the reeds and stumbled up and over a small dune, her heart pounding. She crested the dune in time to see two men, one taller than the other, standing back to back, surrounded by a group of what could only be described as thugs. Both men were fairhaired, though one was taller than the other. The taller one, dressed in shabby robes, was responsible for the lightning. “Great. Another mage,” Carver groused.

Hawke just glared at her brother before throwing herself down the other side of the dune, readying her own fire spell. The thugs were disorganized and showed no discipline and no experience at fighting together. The shorter fair haired man wielded a pair of blades that flashed in the frequent pulses of lightning as he took out one bounty hunter after another. Problem was, there were far too many of the ragged, scrawny men. Hawke swallowed her sympathy for their desperation as she parried a wildly swung sword blade with her heavy staff. They were attacking a mage for the bounty, after all, and would do the same to her if given half the chance. _Kill or be killed,_ she reminded herself. Her staff connected with someone’s head with a bloody, wet-sounding impact and he fell to his knees and then tipped over. She spun, looking for more opponents. And found only the two strange men she and her brother had rescued. Both were looking at her speculatively. She could guess what the elf was thinking and she grinned. Bowing with a flourish in his direction, she drawled, “This rescue is on the house. I’ll have to charge for the next one.” 

The elf bowed in return, spinning his glowing green sword and dagger with its lightning rune back into their sheaths on his back. “And I would gladly pay. To whom do we owe this delightful removal from the proverbial fire?”

Before Hawke could answer, Carver stepped forward and interrupted. “Hawke. Our name’s Hawke. I’m Carver,” he nodded, still slightly breathless from the fight, in his sister’s direction, “that’s Margaret.”

The other fair haired man grinned. “A beauty and a fellow mage. Zev, tell our friend that Kirkwall may not be the terrible exile she was afraid it would be.” A bit of gold glinted in the man’s ear in the fading light of the sun.

The rogue laughed. “She will not be surprised.” He looked around at the bodies. “I assume there will be looting?”

Hawke frowned, glanced at her brother, both of their noses wrinkling. “Why in the Maker’s name would we do _that_?”

The man with the earring laughed. “New to adventuring, I see.” Systematically, the rogue and the strange mage set about riffling the dead men’s and women’s pockets and even checked for jewelry.

Zev straightened up, rubbing out a kink in his lower back. “I do, however, draw the line at checking for gold teeth.” He’d gathered a small pile of items at his feet.

That drew a shudder from the mage. “There are some things that just aren’t worth the pay-off.” His pile was a little larger, but it might have been less discriminating, Hawke thought.

“Um, were either of you the person we were hired to bring to Kirkwall?”

The mage raised his hand. “That would be me.”

“And you are?” Carver demanded. 

“It’s best we don’t get into names, don’t you think?” He began stuffing his pack with the smaller items he’d gotten off the bodies. He handed the few usable weapons to Carver. “Here, a down payment. Sell them or use them. They’re of no use to us.”

Carver glanced at Hawke who gave a one shoulder shrug. “He’s right. They’d certainly fetch a decent price. As long as we don’t sell them all to the same merchant.”

The fair haired mage straightened up, lifting his pack. “Thank you, Zev. Give my regards to our friend.”

“I will Ser Mage. Stay out of trouble.” The elf winked. “Well, do not do anything _I_ wouldn’t do, at least.” The rogue clasped Hawke’s hand and brushed his mouth over it, a grin playing about his full lips. “Serra, it’s been a pleasure to fight by the side of one so gorgeous, and so deadly. But alas, love and duty calls. Fortunately, love makes duty sweet.” The elf bowed again and took off at a sprint, blending quickly with the oncoming shadows of twilight.

“Shall we be going?” The strange mage asked, his lips twisted in a wry, yet sad grin as he watched the elf disappear.

“So you’re really not going to tell us your name?” Carver demanded.

The man pulled a deep hood over his head, hiding his face. “I think the less we know about each other the better.” He handed Hawke a heavy pouch. “Here is the half promised now. The other half is yours when you get me to Darktown.”

“Darktown!” Carver exclaimed. “No one said anything about having to set foot --”

Margaret Hawke held up her free hand, the other still holding the pouch of coins. “Darktown. No questions asked. As Ser requests.” She inclined her head. “If Ser will follow us?” She turned and walked quickly, aware that the stranger hung back, letting Carver catch up to her. 

“Maggie, what are you thinking?” 

“I’m thinking of the future. As should you be.” She rewrapped the end of her staff in its concealing leathers. “And food. Gamlen’s larder’s empty again. The only thing I found in there this morning was cheese that wasn’t supposed to be moldy.” She wrinkled her nose at the remembered stench. “Now, c’mon, before we have to pay the Carta to get back into the city, too.” Lightning arced in the distance, followed by the low rumble of thunder. As one, all three of them looked north to the horizon to find a wicked-looking squall headed for the coastline and the city. Hawke sighed. “And before we get caught in that. And in the morning, we’re going to have a chat with Athenril when we give her her ‘fee.’”

On the way back, she joined her brother in rowing, cursing the sore muscles she would have in the morning.

~*~

Cullen stepped off the gangplank and onto the stone dock and did his best not to breathe a sigh of relief. He hated ship travel, his stomach was still churning. Correction, he hated traveling in the hold. As he recalled, the _Siren’s Call_ had been pleasant. However, remembering his first sea voyage and Isabela would just bring him blushing to his new duty station. He nodded to the captain who’d begun overseeing her cargo unloading, and shouldered his modest pack.

Of course, thoughts of Isabela reminded him of the real reason he was here. Moira had found him, a month after he’d left Amaranthine. Before he’d been sent here. 

_“You haven’t left for Kirkwall, I see.” She’d stormed into his office with no preamble, the Grey Warden chainmail with its Griffon Rampant emblazoned on her chest. It looked like light mail, but he knew it was stout heavy plate disguised to only look that way. The Warden Commander knew far too many tricks. He’d sparred with her in full armor before._

_He looked up from his report, he didn’t bother to get up. She frowned on it and he was no longer her bumbling recruit. “There’ve been delays as you well know.”_

_She rubbed her forehead. “Yes, I know. Bloody Stannard and her bloody damned stalling tactics.”_

_He’d frowned. “Why are you so intent on my getting there anyway? Is your pet already in trouble?”_

_Those wide cerulean eyes glared him and her pointed ears twitched. “Anders hasn’t even gotten there yet. I have other sources of information in the city, but none of them are reliable. The refugees from the Blight have started to trickle back here and the rumors they bring are… worrying.”_

_He stood at that. “What rumors?” She crossed her arms and shook her head, looking up at him. He was struck, then, by the dark circles under her eyes. They showed on her fair skin like bruises. “What’s wrong, Moira?”_

_She shook her head again. “Just… get to Kirkwall. I want your fair and honest assessment. You’ve seen the worst of mages. I’m afraid I’ve asked you to go where you’re going to see the worst of Templars.”_

_He’d crossed his arms over his breastplate, raising an eyebrow. “I thought it was my idea to go to Kirkwall?”_

_She’d merely smiled that impish half smile that once made his knees weak when they’d both been so very much younger. Now, it just made him sad. He shook his head as she turned on her heel and left his office._

His orders came through from Val Royeaux fairly quickly after that conversation. Next thing he knew he was on what was essentially the slowest boat out of Denerim and trying very hard not to get seasick. Once again, he missed the _Siren’s Call_. He spared a brief smile for the Captain of that vessel and sent a prayer to Andraste that the woman was safe, not letting himself think further on his memory of that ship.

“Ser Cullen Rutherford?” A young recruit, probably barely old enough to shave, came to a hurried stop in front of him. A flush colored the young Antivan’s dusky skin from his sprint and he was trying not to gulp in air.

“Yes?” Cullen reminded himself to stop slouching while he ignored the young man’s attempt to catch his breath. It made the plate dig into his rib cage anyway. He drew his shoulders back. Straightening his posture had the misfortune of scaring the page, however. 

The young man visibly swallowed, his cheeks turning a shade more pale. Inwardly, Cullen sighed. _Had he ever been that young? Maybe. Once. Before Uldred._ He hid the involuntary fist his hand made at the thought of the name. “Ser? Welcome to The Gallows? Ser? Knight-Commander Meredith? Would like you to follow me? Ser?” 

Nodding, Cullen swung his single pack up over his shoulder and followed the page. He tried not to be too obvious about looking around, but the Gallows was built to intimidate. A shiver ran up his spine a the statues contorted in postures of weeping and agony. He followed them upwards to find more statues, looming over the entrance, their faces covered. What little he could see of the carved visages gave the impression of screams of agony or despair. Or both. And this was where they housed their mages? 

As much as mages needed to be controlled… wasn’t this excessive?

He’d heard the Veil was thinner here in Kirkwall. Moira had informed him of that much, at least. Did that mean they were that much more dangerous? He brought his eyes back down to watch where he was going before he tripped over the page. Instead, he trod on the foot of someone else entirely.

“I do apologize. Excuse --”

Blank brown eyes under the Sunburst sigil denoting a Tranquil stared up at him. The short, elven male merely bowed his head, with his palms flat on his legs, and stepped out of the way. “It was my fault, Ser. Please excuse me.” 

“Uh--” Cullen blinked, not quite sure how to take the sudden obeisance. Tranquil were peaceful, yes, even docile. But, this was unusual. He turned in time to catch a sneer on the page’s face directed at the Tranquil before the young man could wipe it away. “What was his crime?”

“Crime?” the young man asked as they started walking again. “I’m not sure. I haven’t been here very long. It was a mage, they get up to all sorts of stupid --”

Within two steps, Cullen had the young man by the upper arm and turned him around. “Are you or are you not a Templar recruit?”

The boy straightened. “I am.”

“And don’t your vows say to protect mages as well as to protect those without magic?” The boy’s eyes were darting everywhere but at the senior knight’s face. “Well?” Cullen was aware they were attracting an audience. 

“”Then you would do well to keep that in mind. The moment you forget to respect your charges is the moment they turn on you!” He released the boy. “Now, take me to the Knight Commander.” 

“Yes, sir.” The boy didn’t dare glare at him, but he caught some disapproving frowns from his audience. All mages needed to be watched. They couldn’t be trusted. He believed that. His nightmares reminded him every time he closed his eyes. But that boy?

When he’d been sent to Kinloch Hold, he’d been required to know who every Tranquil was and why they wore the brand. Were there really so many they didn’t bother? His eyes sought out and found the former mages, now, walking around the small market, weaving in and out of the refugees. Their stiff gait and blank faces making them stand out. Either Kirkwall was a much larger Circle than Kinloch, or they had far more troublemakers thanks to the rumored problems with the Veil.

Either way, meeting Knight Commander Meredith Stannard would be interesting. He nodded respectfully to the crowd that hadn’t disbursed, holding each challengers’ eyes until they nodded back out of habit, at least. This should be interesting. He followed the page who was now all but running through the gates and into the tower, protocol be damned. _Maker preserve me._


	6. Walking Alone

The Gallows continued to live up to its name as the page led him through the imposing stone corridors.  Some effort had been made to lessen the harsh austerity of the Templar corridors at least.  Tapestries hung at various intervals, most depicting battle scenes from Andraste’s life.  He had to pause at one, though, and squint.  From the colors, it was the newest and cleanest.  He tried very hard not to laugh.  It showed Alistair, of all people -- he corrected himself, _King_ Alistair, plunging the sword into the head of the Archdemon while a small group of adoring women looked on, one of whom was distinctly a dark-haired elf.  He covered his mouth and stilled his reaction, filing it away.  It had to be here to teach how the truth could be twisted.  

Had to be.  

The page stopped before a heavy wooden door and knocked once, then stepped aside at the terse, feminine tenor, “Come in.”  The page bowed to him, but instead of opening the door, spun on his heel and sprinted in the other direction.  Cullen shook his head and shoved on the heavy wood, entering to an office painted a brilliant white as if neither dust nor dirt would dare sully the walls.  Very little adorned the bare plaster.  Seated at the neatly organized desk sat a pale-haired woman, her blue eyes scanning the top page of a stack of reports, crows-feet at the corners of her eyes the only indication of any sort of age.  

He came to attention in front of her desk, chin up, eyes forward, arms stiffly at his sides.  “Knight Lieutenant Cullen Rutherford reporting as ordered, Knight Commander.”  For a few silent minutes, she kept reading the report in front of her.  Sweat began to pool under the heavy plate.  The sea breeze had masked it before, but it was dreadfully humid in Kirkwall.  The close confines of the oppressively tidy office just made it that much more apparent.  A bead began to trickle down his temple and a random thought skittered across the back of mind, _Moira wouldn’t ever make even a servant stand like this.  Moira also lacks discipline,_ a more critical side of him pointed out.

_There’s discipline and there’s unprofessional._  He argued with himself.   _All right, point.  The report might be urgent?  Maker, I hope so._ After what seemed an interminable period where he felt as if his armor had become an oven, the Knight Commander looked up and regarded him steadily from her chair, ice-blue eyes weighing and measuring.  “Ah, the Warden-Templar.”  He knew better than to speak.  He watched her watch him and tried not to wonder how she knew that.  “Assuming you are here to be a Templar, Knight Captain, your quarters will be in the East Wing.  We are a little overcrowded at the moment, given the situation at Starkhaven, so you will be sharing quarters with your executive officer, Knight Lieutenant Samson.”

_Situation at Starkhaven?_ He blinked, then swallowed around the sudden twist in his gut and the pulse racing in his throat, “There must be some mistake, I’m a --”  

“I know what you were, Knight Captain.  Someone with your experience, your training, and your ability should have been promoted after the incident at Kinloch Hold, not sent off to run errands with the Hero of Ferelden and his elven mistress.”  Cullen felt like he’d been dumped in ice water.  

“Ser, if I may, the Hero of Ferelden _is_ the ‘elven mistress,’” he pointed out.

She stood to her full height.  There weren’t many women who could meet him in the eye directly, the Knight Commander was apparently as physically imposing as she was in aspect.  He resisted the urge to step backward and held still, tightening his fingers against each other where they were clenched behind his back.  “One:  here, unless you are addressing a fellow Dog Lord, we use the Orlesian form of address.  But I am always Knight Commander.  Two:  never correct me again.  Am I clear?”

“Yes, Knight Commander.”  He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth.  

“Before you find your quarters, introduce yourself to the First Enchanter.”  She picked up a small bell and rang it.  A door that had been disguised as part of the wall opened and a pretty blond human in mage robes emerged, dimples showing as she smiled briefly at him before she dropped her eyes and bowed her head to the Knight Commander, waiting silently.

“Elsa, take the new Knight Captain to see Orsino.”  

The girl dropped into a curtsey and Cullen blinked.  Surely she was at least an Enchanter.  Why was she running errands?  And curtseying?    “Yes, Knight Commander.  Right away.  Knight Captain, if you’ll follow me?”  The mage executed a precise turn to her left and walked around him to exit the door he’d entered through.  He nodded his his head at the Knight Commander who wave him off in dismissal, already turning back to her reports.  

“Oh, and Knight Captain?  After Orsino, I’d like you to take over as Master of Recruits and Junior Initiates. Elsa will take you to your new office and quarters once you’ve introduced yourself.”  Startled, he turned to look at her, but she’d already dismissed him.  Blinking, he followed the fair-haired mage from the office.

“Is she always like that?”  He asked the older woman.

Blue eyes widened in alarm and she looked around hurriedly and shook her head rapidly.  Cullen wasn’t sure if she was denying his question or warning him against asking it in the first place.  He frowned and followed her.  Not for the first time, he wished Moira were there.  Hell, Zevran might have been more useful.  Or Alistair with his Templar training.  Someone to tell him what was going on.  

He straightened his shoulders.  No.  This was _his_ posting.   _His_ job.  No one else’s.  He was here to do the Maker’s work and he didn’t need anyone else to tell him what to do or how to do it.  As he’d always done, he’d let the Maker guide him.  It was time he stood on his own two feet.  His resolve set, he followed the mage through the door she held open.

An elderly, balding elf stood with his back to the door in front of a desk piled high with books and scrolls.  A young woman seemed to be sobbing into his arms.  “Messere?”  Elsa inquired.

“One moment, Elsa.”  He held the young woman at arm’s length and Cullen stepped to one side, respectfully waiting at his ease.  The man was doing his job, after all.  “Kaitya, you must return to your studies.  I will see that the young man is reassigned.”

The brown-haired young elf woman looked up at the older elf with a tear-stained face.  “But First Enchanter!  He’s been reassigned!  He somehow always still --!”   Cullen felt his stomach twist.  

“First Enchanter?”  Cullen cleared his throat.  Whatever else was going on, if this was truly what she was implying -- and he was more than willing to believe her, mages did not make that accusation lightly.  “Might I know this young man’s name?  In my new duties, I could take a personal interest in someone who interferes so much with young mages.”  

The First Enchanter turned, his arm protectively around his charge’s shoulder.  “You’ll have to forgive me, ser..?”

“Knight, uh, C-Captain Cullen Rutherford.”  The title still felt odd to his lips.  “I just arrived today.  From Kinloch Hold.”  

The First Enchanter’s eyes widened, then narrowed.  “Welcome to The Gallows, Knight Captain.  I see you’ve met Elsa.  I assume you’ve reported to the Knight Commander?”

“Yes, First Enchanter.  And received my duty assignment.  I’m to be head of Recruits and Junior Initiates.  If this Templar falls under my purview, perhaps I can… discuss his behavior with him.  At length.”  He couldn’t really help the snarl he put into that last part.  Few things set him off faster than Templars who pushed their status with mages.  It was the entire reason he and Moira -- _there is no ‘you and Moira’ and there never will be so shut it, she’s happy where she is._  And for that, he could be glad.  

Orsino’s eyebrows rose.  “For once, I actually believe something will be done.  You’ll leave Kaitya out of it?”

Cullen looked at the young woman, from her to Elsa, whose blue eyes were wide.   _You have_ got _to be joking.  What kind of a place is Meredith running?_  “You have my word.  Even if I find myself unable to reassign him due to _circumstances_ beyond my control,” he looked at Orsino, steadily. He’d grasped that much just walking through the courtyard. “This young man will find himself far too busy to cause trouble for anyone.”

“Kaitya, I believe you should return to your studies, now.  Elsa will escort you and then return for the Knight Captain.  I think he and I are going to have an interesting discussion.”

All in all, it was certainly an educational meeting with the First Enchanter.  While the only charge Cullen was willing to take at face value was that of Templars, male and female, it seemed, pressing advantage upon their mage-born charges, between Orsino’s coded and cleverly disguised warnings, Cullen felt as if he’d been dropped into a viper’s nest.  When Elsa came to retrieve him, it was nearing sunset and his stomach rumbled, reminding him that his Grey Warden appetite, at least, was still going to remain unabated.   He spared a brief thought to his lyrium cravings, but those had been absent for quite some time.  

He followed the cheerful mage, who, now that he seemed to have taken a side in the politics of this place as far as she was concerned, chattered at him about schedules and rotations and where to find what.  He listened with half an ear, knowing he’d remember it all later, but mostly trying to remember what Jowan had told him before he left about the cravings.

_“It’ll be a few weeks before you’ll feel them again, you know,”  the sallow mage had pointed out._

_“What do you mean?  I thought I was done.”  Cullen had frowned, glaring at the man as he gathered his meager belongings._

_“That’s not entirely true.  Moira and I… we’ve been helping your symptoms.”  Jowan looked everywhere but at Cullen._

_“Maker’s breath, Jowan, spit it out.”  The Templar straightened up and crossed his arms._

_“We’ve been keeping you from the worst of it.”  Jowan said in a rush._

_“You mean, you two have been healing me before I could experience withdrawal symptoms?”  Cullen remembered wanting to be angry.  He still wanted to be angry.  But he’d seen lyrium withdrawal.  All he had really felt was gratitude.  When Jowan nodded, warily, he chuckled, “Don’t look so frightened.  Lyrium withdrawal can be deadly.  Thank you.  To both of you.”_

_“You may need to find a Healer in Kirkwall.”_

_“I probably will.  I doubt I’m over them entirely.”_

“And the mess will be around the corner from the barracks, but straight down the hall.  The last large set of double doors on the left.  Just follow the noise and the smell of burnt meat.”  Elsa stopped in the hallway and turned to face him, gesturing.

“Wait, burnt meat?  The food is that awful?”  Cullen looked at the mage doubtfully.

She smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek.  “Oh, it’s truly terrible.  Some of the Templars manage to find meals outside of The Gallows, but we mages, well… we must pay our penance.”  She winked.  

Involuntarily, he chuckled.  “Well.  Is this-?”  He gestured at the rough-hewn wooden door.

“Oh, yes!  My apologies, Knight Captain!”  She knocked on the door and a gravelled voice called out a command to enter.  “Knight Lieutenant Samson, I’d like to introduce your new Knight Captain, Cullen.”

The Knight Lieutenant was a tall man.  Rangy, not quite as broad as Cullen himself, but had the reach on him.  He was clean-shaven, even as late as it was.  Cullen resisted the impulse to run a hand over his own stubble that always seemed to grow in sooner than it should.  Samson’s dark hair was neatly groomed and trimmed, even in the humidity.  “Ser,” the other man said, coming to attention.  

“At ease.  Thank you, Elsa.  That will be all.”  Cullen turned to put his pack with his spare armor, the set Moira had given him months ago, in it on the floor in order to stow it under the only other narrow bed in the room.  As he straightened up, he caught Elsa handing something to the Knight Lieutenant in the reflection of the small shaving mirror standing on the bureau at the foot of the bed.  When it seemed to only be a scrap of paper Samson pocketed before Elsa bowed her way out of the door, Cullen decided to keep silent.

He straightened up.  “So, Knight Lieutenant, I’ve been told the mess is a terrible place to eat.”

* * *

 

Moira sat up in a chair in her office, wondering if she had done the right thing.  She was manipulating people, her _friends_ , like chess pieces and asking them to risk everything for her while she sat safe and secure in Vigil’s Keep.  She tensed as the slightly rusted hinges of her door creaked. The sound of a familiar set of boots on the stones of the floor allowed her to relax. She glanced at Perrin who’d only twitched an ear at the newcomer.  “Lazy assed dog.”  He was getting old.   _Yet another thing to worry about._

She stood and greeted Alistair with the simple expedient of throwing herself into his arms.  He stumbled backward since she hit him mid-stride and they hit the door as he laughed.  “I should sneak up on you more often if this is the greeting I get.”  He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her hello.  

No matter how often she kissed him, Moira’s reaction, though slightly dimmed from the first time due to familiarity, remained the same.  Her knees went weak, her head spun, and she always wanted more.  She entangled her fingers in his sweat-soaked hair and kissed him back with interest, slipping her tongue in between his parted lips to caress his.  She still pulled away first, though.  He looked at her, eyes wide and breathing a little heavy.  “Is everything alright?”

She wriggled until he set her on her feet. Her mind racing, despite the thorough kiss, she spun and started pacing.  “I sent Anders to Kirkwall.  Zevran should be on his way back from escorting him right now.”

“And?”  

“And nothing.  I’m using him.  I’m using him and using Justice and I hate myself for it.”  She turned back to look up at the King of Ferelden.  “And I’m using Cullen.”

His eyebrows tried to climb into his hairline.  “And that has what to do with anything, my love?”

“I sent him to take care of Anders.”  She sighed and stood in the middle of the room helplessly clenching and unclenching her fists.  “I’m using all three of them.  Not only am I putting in danger a fragile man and an easily manipulated spirit, I’m asking one of my oldest friends to warp his own principles to safeguard an abomination and I played on his sense of duty and brotherhood to do it.  All I can think of is, ‘How can I use the others?  To what end can I put Nathaniel?  Will Sigrun help me cement relations with the remaining Legion?  Will Oghren be useful as an emissary to Bhelen?  Can I use Velanna to recruit more Dalish?’  What in the Maker’s name has happened to me, Alistair?”  She covered her face, unable to look at him.  “Even now, I wonder if you being king will help us in some way and if I can get Zevran to send me recruits while he’s off slaughtering Crows.  Will the Crow I recruited along the way to rescuing you ever find her way here?  And how fast can I teach Ash everything she needs to know?”

Strong hands gripped her wrists and gently pulled them down to hold her hands in his.  Hazel eyes searched her face.  “I won’t lie and tell you I’m not bothered by what you just told me.  But answer me this question:  Do you still love us?  Me and Zevran? Ash?”

She blinked up at him, startled.  “With all my heart.”  

“Then remember that.  Why are you so worried about Kirkwall, anyway?”  He released her wrists and stepped away.

“I’ve found some disturbing records here and in Soldier’s Keep that indicate several very large problems are buried in and beneath that city.”  She ran her fingers through her hair, and turned to her desk to find the ancient scrolls.  “The parchment is practically crumbling, nothing was done to preserve it, even if it wasn’t very old, but everything points to some serious problems on the horizon.  Not to mention that with the highest concentration of mages in the Free Marches and the thinning Veil thanks to that bloody Tevinter Empire, I have a very bad feeling about that city.”

Alistair took the parchment from her thin fingers and scanned the cramped text.  “My Tevene’s a bit rusty, Moira.  What’s it say?”

She rolled her eyes, “It’s Old Tevene, actually.  And from what I’ve been able to piece together, there’s something locked up underneath Kirkwall that we really don’t want getting out.”

“Another Architect?” His eyebrows climbed again.

“If we’re lucky.”

He leaned back on one leg and crossed his arms.  “I take back what I said.  I’m not worried.  I’m bloody grateful.  Andraste’s knickers, Moira!  You may be using everyone, even yourself, Love.  But you’re doing it to protect Ferelden and all of Thedas.”

“That thought’s not really helping me sleep at night.”

He grinned at her and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. “I can think of one way to cure that.  We’ll get Ash dinner, work on her lessons for a while, get her to bed, and then, well, we’ll work on your insomnia.”

She smiled up at him.  “Is that a promise?”  

“I swear it.”

* * *

 

 

Fenris, the name he was given, the name he hated, the only name he knew, crouched in the shadows, watching the house.  The strange party made up of the two red-haired human women, the tall, dark haired male warrior and the blond dwarf had entered only a short time ago.  Tension coiled in his stomach.  The slavers had set this trap rather clumsily; dangling information about his family, if such a thing existed, out as bait. He had no choice but to spring that trap. Especially if there might actually be information there. _What if there was a wife?  A child?  A lover?  What did I leave behind?_  It hadn’t occurred to him there’d been anyone or Danarius would have surely used them as leverage. But now?  Could he take that chance?   
****

And so, he found the shifty dwarf, Anso.  For the last of his gold, the beady-eyed surface dweller promised to find someone competent to spring the trap. Anso said one of the red-haired women came highly recommended.  Hawke, was the name, if he recalled.  Probably the taller one with the shield on her back.  Though they all seemed to be listening to the shorter, curvier, prettier one with the staff.  

A boot scraped on stone.  The slave takers were preparing an ambush for his decoys’ departure.  He counted at least ten in the courtyard hidden in various places in the alienage.  However, there were reinforcements coming up the stone steps right now.  Silently, he drew the large blade that hung on his back.  Keeping to the shadows as only the ink-black armor he wore allowed him to, he crept along on bare feet.  

He managed to surprise the first one.  He flared his lyrium, feeling the white-hot flame ignite throughout his body and with one smooth, forceful motion, shoved his fist into the man’s chest and crushed the beating heart within.  A strangled sigh and the warrior collapsed at the elf’s feet, never having drawn his blade or otherwise made a sound.  

The elf was already moving onto his next target.  But the archer had spotted him.  He dodged the poorly aimed arrow and dove for the rogue, the large blade scything through the air, bisecting the flimsy bow, and impacting the unarmored neck of the archer.  Blood fountained and the thug collapsed.  The others were dispatched similarly and quietly.  

Noise alerted him to his decoys fighting in the alienage.  He smirked.  From the sounds, the decoys were holding their own.  One last idiot to dispatch.  Two slashes, one across the gut, one on the upper thigh and he let the man stumble toward the courtyard.  

Of course, there was still their chief.  Fenris approached his decoys from behind the slave taker, watching the small group for their reactions.  “Your trap has failed and your men are dead.  You have one chance to leave now and run back to your master.”

Of course, they never took his advice.  But when the idiot called him a slave, well, he had only two replies for that.  He heard a gasp behind him as he allowed his rage to fuel his lyrium and punched _through_ the man’s chest this time, not even bothering to crush the man’s heart this time, just shatter it on impact.  “I am no slave,” he told the twitching corpse.

“That’s a, uh, interesting trick.”  Fenris turned, expecting the throaty contralto to belong to the tall warrior.  The shorter red-head with the staff, her hair pulled up into a tail, had stepped forward.  Wide, bright green eyes traveled from his head to his toes and back up.  He had the feeling she could now describe him in detail with her eyes closed.

“Ah, thank you.”  He bowed his head slightly,  “I apologize.  When I asked Anso for a distraction, I had no idea they would be so .. numerous.”  

The pretty red head pulled full lips back in a wide smile and he found himself smiling back.  “Don’t worry, we do this sort of thing often.”

“Fight thugs in back alleys?”  He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.

She winked, “Rescue handsome men from ambushes.”

He was so shocked to be flirted with, his laugh turned into a cough.  “Er, impressive.”  He cleared his throat.  “My name is Fenris.  These men were bounty hunters from the Tevinter Empire, seeking to retrieve a magister’s lost property.  Namely myself.”  He watched with interest as the redhead’s smile faded into a thunderous scowl that did nothing to mar her beauty.  “They were attempting to lure me into the open, crude as their methods were.  As you can see, I could not face them alone.  Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.”  He paused as she cocked her head at him.  “However, he only told me the name Hawke and to look for a red haired woman.  Might I know...”

She smiled again and he found himself giving another answering smile.  The tall dark-haired man behind her rolled his eyes and threw up his hands.  “I’m Carver Hawke, the one you’re smiling at is my older sister, Margaret Hawke.  The tall one is Aveline, the short one is Varric.  Can we _please_ discuss why everything Anso said to us was a lie?”  

He found it a little difficult to tear his eyes away from Margaret Hawke to look at her much larger brother.  “Not everything he said was lie.  Your employer was simply not who you were led to believe.”

The taller woman shook her head. “This makes no sense.  If you couldn’t fight them, then why not just run.  There is no shame in a retreat.”

Fenris shrugged.  “There comes a time where there is nowhere else to retreat.  When you must turn and face the tiger.  I’ve grown tired of running.”

The dwarf stepped forward and narrowed his eyes.  “That seems like an awful lot of effort to find one slave.  Does this have something to do with those markings?”

Hawke stepped closer as well; her eyes focused on his, though, not the markings.  “I imagine I must look strange,” Fenris began, uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny. 

“‘Strange’ wasn’t the word I was thinking of, no,” she was still smiling, but with her head tilted.  A lock of hair had escaped confinement and curled across her brow.

He raised his eyebrows, he was hesitant to ask what the word was she was thinking of was, “I didn’t receive them by choice. But they’ve served me well.  Without them, I’d still be a slave.”

The one named Aveline snorted.  “Well, Anso’s job did seem a little too easy.”

“I apologize if the deception was unnecessary.  Perhaps, I’ve gotten too accustomed to hiding.”  Hawke was still looking at up him.  There weren’t a lot of human women shorter than he, even if it wasn’t by much.

“If they were really trying to recapture you, or kill you, then I’m happy I -- we-- helped,” she brushed the hair out of her eyes, but it fell right back, making him revise his estimation of her age downwards.  Not that it mattered.  He wasn’t even sure how old _he_ was.

He ducked his head, but kept his eyes on hers.  “I -- I have met few in my travels, in my flight, that have sought anything more than personal gain.  If I might ask,  what was in the chest? The one that was supposed to lure me here?”

The dwarf chuckled.  “It was empty.”  He dropped his voice, perhaps forgetting elves have better hearing than humans, “I couldn’t write shit like this!”  Fenris blinked.

Hawke glared at the dwarf, before turning back to him.  “Were you expecting something more?”

“I shouldn’t have, I suppose.  It was bait, nothing more.”

“All that for an empty chest,” the brother, Carver, groused.  

“Not just yet.”  He brushed past Hawke, his bare arm brushing against hers with a startling shock.  He froze, expecting it to have been the lyrium, but no, just the shock of the touch of a pretty girl.  He bent and rifled the chief idiot’s pockets and belt-pouch.  But even thoughts of a pretty girl couldn’t stand up to the sort of rage that simmered deep inside when he found the guard’s token.  “It’s as I thought.  My former master accompanied them to the city.  I know you have questions.  But I must confront him before he flees.”  He met Hawke’s eyes.  “I will need your help.  One more time.”

Aveline stood with her arms crossed.  “It sounds like you intend to do more than just talk.”

Fenris knew who was speaking, but his eyes never left Hawke’s.  She seemed to be taking note of everything everyone said, her arms crossed under her bosom and her mouth turned down into a frown of thought. “Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones and he has sent so many hunters that I have lost count.”  He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.  “Before I escaped, he kept me on a leash like a qunari mage.  A personal pet to mock qunari custom.”

“That son of a --”  Hawke’s eyes flashed in anger.

“So, yes.  I intend to do more than just talk.”

The shorter woman’s eyes were narrowed in anger.  “If it means fighting more slavers, I’ll help you.”

Aveline sighed.  “If it means more breaking and entering.  And well… murder, no matter how just, I think the less I know, the better.”

Hawke nodded.  “I understand, Aveline.  Will we see you at the Hanged Man, later?  Beth should be there.”

The tall woman chuckled.  “I’ll go guard your baby sister from the miscreants, Hawke. You go rid the world of a few dozen more slavers. Try not to make too big of a mess the Guard has to hear about it, please?”

Hawke grinned.  “Yes, Messere.”  She turned back to him and hooked her arm through his, familiarly.  It took a great deal of willpower not to flinch away from an expectation of pain.  After all, she wasn’t going to hurt him just holding his arm.  “Take us to your former master, so that we might educate him in the error of his ways.  Forcibly.  By beating him him with his spine.”  Her smile turned predatory.

Fenris found himself returning her rather bloodthirsty expression.  Maybe Margaret Hawke had been the right person in the right place at the right time.

 


	7. In the Naked Light

The demons were a bit of a surprise.  Though one Fenris should have expected, given who they were after.

The indoor lightning storm was a larger surprise.  Electricity arced through the once grand, shabby foyer, shooting through the flaming rage demons, the icy shades, and the grabbing spectres.  A fireball shot from behind him and impacted a shade he hadn’t had time to get his guard up for, staggering the thing and allowing him to cleave it in two.  Given that it was impossible for the dwarf to use magic and the tall human male was standing next to him, hitting the otherworldly beings rather competently with a large two-handed blade, that left the beautiful, red-haired woman he’d been flirting with.  His stomach twisted and fell into the soles of his feet and bile coated the back of his tongue.  Somewhere in his chest, it felt like he’d ripped out his own heart.  When the last demon in the room collapsed into a pile of dust, he wheeled on her, his blade still out.  

Her green eyes widened in alarm and she backed up as he advanced.  “Fenris, what -- what’s wrong?”

“It never ends!” He stalked her.  One step forward for every step she retreated.  “It follows me, wherever I run!  I escaped a land of dark magic only to be hunted by it at every. Single. Turn!”  He held up the arm without his sword, her eyes followed the gesture. _She’s a mage, no sympathy!_ He reminded himself. _She’d just as soon spill your blood for her own gain as breathe!_ “It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul.  And now I find myself in the company of yet. Another. Mage.  I should have realized what you really were.”  He wanted to grab her and shake her.  He wanted to hurt her before she hurt him.  The rest of him wanted to pull her against him and kiss those full lips until they bruised and wrap his fist in her hair and pull her head back to bare her throat to his teeth.   _She will destroy me!_  He breathed in deeply to still the rising rage and panic. He felt rather than saw her rather large brother come up behind him.  “One more step, and my hand will go through her heart.”

“And my bolt will go through yours, elf,” the dwarf told him.  He kept one eye on her, and kept them in his peripheral vision, over his shoulder.

Hawke broke their stalemate by grabbing his hand and to his astonishment, and her brother’s shouted protest, “Maggie, no!” put it over the left side of her chest.  He could feel her pounding heart beat there beneath his palm.  The soft tissue of her breast was far too close.  He swallowed and met her jewel green eyes.   “So what am I, really?”  Were there tears?   _No! It’s a trick!_

He froze.  He had no answer.  In his rage, he hadn’t actually expected any of this. The staff-calluses on her palms that no magister would ever let grow felt rough against his lyrium-scarred skin.  Her short, blunt fingers trembled where one hand clenched his wrist and the other pressed his metal-gauntleted hand flat.  “What manner of mage are you?  What do you seek?”  His voice sounded rougher to his own ears than he wanted it to.

A tear actually did fall from her eye to trail down her perfect cheek.   _No, no sympathy!_  “I don’t know.  What do you think I seek?”

His hand was still flat on her chest and his lyrium was beginning to react to her mana, his skin heating, from her hand outward.   _It didn’t matter._  “You are skilled.  I can tell that much.”   _Powerful._  He leaned closer.   _Maker, her hair smelled like orchids and jasmine and orange blossoms.  That just was not fair._  “But even the best intentioned mages can fall prey to temptation.  And their power becomes a _curse_ to inflict upon others.”

The young man finally spoke up.  “If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me.”

“Carver, shut up.  Thank you, but shut up.”  Her eyes never left Fenris’ face.  “I have lived with this all my life.  Hiding and running.  I am an _apostate_ , Fenris.”  He knew what that meant for her, here in the south.  A death sentence, maybe.  Imprisonment, if she was captured.  And still, she held his wrist and his hand,  using him to pin herself against the wall.  She leaned her head closer to his. “I know what temptation is.  It’s _whispers_ in the dark.  It’s voices _begging_ me to let them in.  Promises of power beyond my wildest dreams, if only I’d give up, give in, give them everything I am.  Give up my self, give up my body, give up my soul.  It all there, if I wanted it.  It’s there every time I close my eyes.”  He stared at her, uncertain why she was telling him this.  Mesmerized by that contralto voice.   Her green eyes flicked over his shoulder to her brother and back to his face.  “And then, my own brother will have to take my life himself if I wake up and I’m not me.  That is, if I or Beth don’t kill him first. Because if I fell, she’d soon follow, too.”  

She pushed off the wall and shoved his hand away.  She paused next him, close enough to reach out and put his arms around her or simply shove a blade between her ribs.  He wasn’t sure which he wanted.  They hadn’t found Danarius, not that he expected to do so any more.  She looked up at him, that lock of hair, falling into her eyes.  “So do not stand here and lecture me about what terrible things magic does or the dangers of temptation.  The evidence has been seared into your skin by a man so evil I cannot even fathom his existence.   But don’t you _ever_ mistake me for something, some _one_ like him.  I would die before I ever give in to that sort of evil. There is no power worth harming another living person, or even an animal, like that to get.”  She looked him up and down, tears drying on her face.  “If I ever meet this man…. I won’t beat him with his spine.  I’ll leave that privilege to you.”  She started to walk away.  “Carver, Varric, whether this asshole is here or not, we cannot leave these demons in possession of this mansion, preying upon whoever wanders by.  Broody, here, can help if he wants.”  Fenris blinked at the improvised nickname.   _Broody?_

“What about it,” the dwarf smirked as if considering something, “Broody?” the dwarf asked, the crossbow still aimed in his direction.  

Fenris looked at Hawke.  Her shoulders and back were straight against her staff.  He tried very hard not to also pay attention to the curve of her ass in the tight-fitting trousers.  He closed his eyes and let out a breath.  “I do not brood.”

“Whatever you say, elf.”  There was the boots scraping against tile and when Fenris opened his eyes, the dwarf was at the door to the next room with Hawke’s brother, waiting.  

Hawke looked over her shoulder at him.  “Are you sure?  I may have to use magic to heal you.”

Fenris couldn’t stop the involuntary shiver.  “If it becomes necessary.”  

“I’ll try to be gentle,” she told him, her voice flat and wry, her full lips tight in anger.   He sneered at her as he passed to take point, catching the scent of her perfume yet again. He tightened his grip on his hilt.  At least he could take his frustration out on the demons.

Unfortunately, the rest of the demons and the traps did not take long to clean up.  His frustration and anger at accepting assistance from a mage, no matter how beautiful the package, still bubbled under his skin.  “I’m sorry, Fenris,” Hawke actually apologized.

Startled, he stopped short and turned toward her.  “For what?”

“That we did not find him.  It seems rather cowardly of him to have set up all these traps and demons in the hopes of killing you just to collect your corpse later.”  She was frowning up at him.  The urge to grab her and kiss her until she couldn’t stand upright any more was at least not accompanied by the urge to harm her.  Maybe some of his frustration had gotten worked out.

“Not to mention a poor business decision,” the dwarf pointed out.  “No offense,” he said, scratching his head.

“None taken,” Fenris drawled.  “To be honest, I’m not sure I understand, either.  Unless he fled because I brought back-up.  Perhaps he, too, has heard of the legendary ‘Hawke’s’ reputation.”  He raised his eyebrows.

The mage laughed.  “What lies have you been telling now, Varric?”

The rogue slung his crossbow across his back and laughed.  “Oh, the usual.  You charm Templars with your beauty, have the criminal underworld completely cowed… oh!  And have the ear of both the Black and White Divines.”

Hawke laughed so hard she had to lean on a wall.  “You’re so full of shit, Tethras!”  Carver rolled his eyes and pushed the main door open for them all and they spilled out into the quiet Hightown night, shattering the silence with Hawke’s continuing laughter.  

“You love me and you know it, Hawke,” The dwarf grinned, his brown eyes scanning the courtyard for threats, much as the human warrior had already begun to do, despite the mage’s distraction.  Fenris had to admit, it was a welcome relief to work with a group of people who were eminently capable.  

He readied his own blade again, and Hawke put her hand on his shoulder, causing him to turn to look down at her.  Eventually he might get used to that.  If he stayed.  The thought was alarming.  “We’re going to the Hanged Man.  If… if you have nothing better to do, you’re welcome to join us.”

He glanced back at the mansion behind them.  It was, in fact, the only other place he could go.  And there was nowhere to sleep at the moment.  It would take some work before the place was remotely habitable.  And that wasn’t something he felt like dealing with at the moment.  He met Hawke’s eyes and tried not to drown in them and strangled the urge to push her up against the wall, pinning her hands above her head and kissing her until she either electrocuted him or her brother ran him through.  “I’d like that.”      

* * *

 

Hawke trailed behind, letting the men walk ahead.  She looked up at the gibbous moon that was just now beginning to crest the mansions of Hightown and shivered in the slightly cool breeze off the bay.  She watched the elf, surreptitiously.  He slouched as he walked, hiding his height, his shoulders tucked in as if to hide their breadth.

But none of that actually hid a damned thing.  He carried that huge sword on his back like it weighed nothing.  She knew they weren’t as heavy as they looked, but from how Carver bitched, it did get tiresome eventually.  Of course, Carver’s hobby was bitching.

She wasn’t sure, exactly, what alerted her.  The scuff of a boot behind her.  A random cough.  Steel clearing a scabbard.  “Son of a bitch!”  She swore and reached for the Fade.  Fenris must have felt her through his markings, he was already turning, his hand going to his blade.  

“Hawke?” Varric called.

“We have company!”  She yelled back.  And then, she was far too busy to pay attention to anything other than trying to keep herself alive.  She was dimly aware of Carver, Varric, and Fenris with her mediocre healing ability.  But none of that mattered when she needed a damned fireball.  Summoning one to her hand, she threw it at an advancing swordsman who caught it with his face and fanned the flames hotter as he panicked and ran screaming.  “One down…,” And then two more were on her and she was forced to use her staff as an actual staff, the steel shaft deflecting their cheaper blades, sparking in the twilight.  She kicked the male one in the balls as hard as she could and dropped his sword and fell gasping to the pavement, retching.  

She finally was able to get enough distance between herself and the swordswoman to throw a bolt of electricity at her, but was suddenly knocked off her feet and into the woman’s blade by what felt like a wall impacting her back. “Sister!”  The blade went clean through her left shoulder and agony flared through her.  She grunted with the pain and met the merc’s wide eyes.  Girl couldn’t be more than a teenager.  Her left hand hadn’t dropped her staff yet, so she balled up her right fist and punched the kid as hard as she could across the jaw.  “Damn you, Hawke! Hang in there!”   _Thank the Maker for glass jaws_ , Margaret thought as the girl went down in a nerveless heap, though that left the sword stuck Margaret’s shoulder.  She yanked it out and spun fast enough to block the downward swing of the asshole with the shield, her own blood spraying off the end of her “borrowed” blade.   _I’m sure someone somewhere would be impressed.  Maybe even me._ The force of the blow knocked her on her ass and she aimed another fireball at her attacker, but his shield went up to block in time.

And then, the guy she’d set on fire came back and he was really pissed off.  Margaret was beginning to lose feeling in her left arm so she switched the staff to her right, abandoning the blade.  She wasn’t as good with it, after all.  But she needed room to stand up.  She scooted backward, tucking her increasingly useless left arm up against her chest.  The burnt asshole reached her before the one with the shield did.  He drew a dagger and grabbed the front of her quilted and spelled tunic, hauling her to her feet and got so close to her face, she could smell the ale on his breath.  She grasped for her mana and found nothing except exhaustion.  He was too close to hit with her staff and she’d have to drop it to punch him.  She aimed her knee at his crotch, but he swung his dagger up at her neck.  The blade nicked her neck and she felt the magebane almost immediately.  Her head felt heavy, her limbs ached, and then the reaction set in.  Nausea.  Tight lungs.  Her throat was starting to close.  She dropped her staff anyway and clawed at the rigid fingers as he grinned in triumph.  “I’m going to enjoy turning you in for the bounty, _bitch_!” he snarled.  

“No. You won’t,” a graveled voice drawled.  The burnt man’s body jerked toward Margaret and his fingers spasmed on her constricting throat.  His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth fell open.  His fingers finally released Margaret and he collapsed at her feet as she stumbled.  She sucked in what little air she could get and she met Fenris’ eyes, as she nearly fell forward.  “Hawke?  Hawke!”  A steel bar caught her around the waist and pulled her away from the bodies.  Booted feet rushing toward her.  The sky was suddenly above her.  

“Hold on to her!”  Carver’s voice.  “Varric, where’s the healing potions?”  It was getting hard to breathe.  There was a weight on her chest.   _Carver, why’s there a weight on my chest?_

“What’s wrong?” Fenris’ had a really sexy voice.  Too bad he sounded so angry.

“Must’ve been magebane.  Maker’s breath, there’s a cut on her neck.  Deep.  She’s wheezing.  That’s good, at least she’s breathing. Hold her up.  Maker take you, elf, she’s not going light you on fire in her state.   _Hold her UP!_  Varric, did you find them all?”  Margaret felt the sky go away and something a lot better than the ground was at least under her head.  She twitched her fingers, wanting to claw at her throat.  Soft white hair pressed against her right temple.  She closed her eyes and let the tears leak out, concentrating on breathing. Thin fingers in a large hand held onto hers, stilling their twitching, tucked back near her hip.   

“You’re going to give her all of them?”

“As many as it takes.  Magebane can kill her.  Me, too, for that matter.”  Familiar fingers grabbed her chin.  “Mags, open your eyes, need you to swallow.”  Glass against her teeth.  Foul, minted, icy-hot, acerbic liquid washed across her tongue and down her throat.  She leaned her head back, trying to help it wash down.  “Another one, Mags.  You know one never does it.”  

“Ugh.  Bastard.”  At least her throat worked now.  But her chest was still very tight.

“We both know who my father was.  Drink it.”  This time, she took the potion from him from herself with the hand not being held onto by the mysterious elf.  She swallowed it, weakly.  Carver moved to throw the vial away and she glared at him.  “Fine.” He put the empty vial back in the pack to be refilled.  “You need another?”  

“Probably.  I don’t really want to throw up.”  At least her throat wasn’t constricted.  Her lungs were still tight, though.  Felt like she was breathing through water.  "I don’t suppose we have an anti-magebane, do we?”  

“You said it was too expensive,”  Varric reminded her, sounding amused.  

She aimed a glare in his general direction since he was out of her line of sight.  “Leave this out of your book.  I don’t need people knowing I can be killed by a scratch.”  She turned her head away from Fenris’ head and coughed, hard.  

Carver held up the last little red vial. “OK, last one.”

“Last one totally, ever completely in the bag?  Last one I need to take tonight?”  Margaret blinked at her brother.  “You know… Why do you have blue eyes, and Beth has brown eyes and I have green and Mother has blue?  And father has brown?  I don’t look like any of you.  And don’t get me started on the red hair.”

Carver rolled his eyes, while Varric was biting back laughter.  She felt Fenris’ shoulders shake behind her.  “Take the potion, Mags.”

She huffed out a sigh.  Really, he was being very difficult.  And her stomach really hurt.  And the sky was really far away.  And her lungs were kinda fuzzy feeling.  And her throat hurt.  “Why is my shirt bloody?”  

“Drink the potion, Mags.”

“Fine.”  She tossed it back like a shot of whiskey and nearly gagged at the taste.  She handed the bottle back to her brother.  She waved her free hand imperiously.  “You should really go through their pockets.  They might have replacement vials.  Or oh!  Gold!”  

Varric had crossed to behind Carver when she took the last potion and looked at the corpses doubtfully.  “They’re ‘Guardsman Pretenders,’ complete bottom of the barrel thugs.  But you never know, we might get lucky.  You alright, elf, or should Carver take her?”

“She’s already sitting on me.  It is probably best if she does not move too much, I should think.”  Fenris adjusted himself behind her and she giggled at the movement because the buildings danced just a little.  “As I said.”

Carver frowned.  “You coming, Junior?”  

Carver shrank before disappearing from her line of sight entirely.  “Yeah, yeah.”

“He’s not going to kill her, Little Hawke.”   Her brother grunted, his voice further away

“Hawke?”  She liked how Fenris said her name, and right by her ear.

“Hmmm?”  The elfroot in the potions was finally easing the constriction in her chest.  She still had no mana to speak of, though.  Not that it mattered.  Not if his voice was going to be that close to her ear.  She wiggled a little, enjoying the tingle in her spine.

He made an annoyed sound.  “I’m going to lean against the building.  And stretch one of my legs out.”  

“Sure.” His arm tightened around her middle as he adjusted to a more comfortable position. “Your hair is the color of _stars_.”

He froze.  “Pardon me?”

It seemed very important that he know this.  She had to tell him. “Your hair, it’s the color of stars.”

“You’re drunk, Hawke.”

“Hmmm,” she nodded against his chest.  Her ponytail was digging into the back of her head.  She reached up and yanked out the leather tie, shoving it into a pocket.  “Probably.  You really shouldn’t hold your breath.  It makes you turn funny colors.  Ruins the whole star thing.”  She held up the hand he was still holding.   “Wish you didn’t hate me ‘cause I’m a mage.  Everyone hates me ‘cause I’m a mage.”  She yawned and put their hands back where they’d been.  “I think I’ll take a tiny nap.”

“That’s an excellent idea.”  He sounded annoyed.  But he always sounded annoyed.  

She roused enough to stare down at his foot stretched out next to her leg.  The lyrium veins running out to each long toe and swirling down to his high arch.  “Why don’t you have boots?”

“What?  I thought you were going to nap.”  He flexed his toes self-consciously.  “Part of Danarius’ rules of ownership, I suppose.”

“You should get some.  City’s,” she yawned, leaning her head back again, “dangerous.  Diseases.  Chokedamp.  Give you share of earnings.  For boots.”  The word trailed off as she dozed.

Fenris had no idea what to do with a lap full of sleeping mage.  Especially one who smelled like orange blossoms and orchids and jasmine and now elfroot.  He’d heard of an allergic reaction.  Rumor had it that’s what his predecessors had died of, those who hadn’t died of lyrium poisoning itself.  He’d never actually seen one, though.  She’d turned far too many unnatural colors for it to be faked.  No one can turn blue on command.  

And she wanted him to have  _boots._

 

_She’s still a mage.  It doesn’t matter what she smells like.  Or how she feels sitting in your lap or holding onto your hand, you idiot._  He let his head flop back against the wall.   _Fasta Vass._

“How’s the patient?” the dwarf asked, amusement tinting his friendly voice.

“I believe she fell asleep.”  “The patient,” wiggled her head in a dream and hit his jaw. Hard.  “I believe she’s having a nightmare.”

Her large brother squatted in front of them, laying her staff alongside Fenris’ outside leg.  “Maggie!  Wake up!”  He patted her face.

Whatever nightmare she was having seemed to get worse.  She clenched her fingers around Fenris’ hand almost to the point of pain.  “No,  I’ll not let you.  NO!  Father!”  She sat up, suddenly, leaving him exposed to the chilly breeze off the bay and the rank odor of Lowtown it carried.  He wrinkled his nose against the stomach turning stench of refuse and dead fish and almost pulled Hawke back against him so he could smell her hair instead of… _that._  Her shoulders slumped.  She looked over her shoulder at him and released his hand, patting it lightly.  “Thank you, Fenris.”  She smiled crookedly, “You made a wonderful pillow.”  

Inspite of himself, he huffed out a laugh.  “You are welcome, Hawke.  Try not to get poisoned again.”

Carver helped her to stand and she back to wink at Fenris.  “Quite.  You might not be around to lay on next time.”  

“Margaret!”  Carver sounded scandalized.  Fenris shook his head, the woman was grown after all.  He got to his feet as the siblings bickered.

“What?  The elephant is running down the alley, Carver!  Might as well wave as it trumpets!”  She started to bend at the waist to retrieve her staff, but almost lost her balance and would have ended up in Fenris’ arms again.  While he braced himself, her brother was the one who caught her this time.  

“Maybe we should go home.”  

“No!  I am not going home to mother like this!”  She pushed her thick hair out of her eyes and glared up at the dark-haired man, wrenching her arm out of his grip.  

Her brother sighed.  “You’re right.”  

Varric picked up her staff and offered it with a flourish and a bow, “M’lady?”  

Hawke laughed and curtseyed, taking her weapon.  “Milord.”   _“Everyone hates me ‘cause I’m a mage.”  Another lie, she couldn’t honestly believe that with evidence like that in front of her._  He picked his own blade up and sheathed it across his back.  

“C’mon, Beth and Aveline are waiting.”

 

* * *

 

The Hanged Man stank of vomit, spilled ale, stale wine, urine, human sweat and desperation.  Fenris tried very hard not to inhale too deeply.  He paused to let his eyes adjust to the somewhat brighter lantern light.  It was noisy and busy and Hawke followed her brother and Varric to the bar.  He settled his sword more comfortably and trailed them, listening to the dwarf and Carver snipe at each other.  “You cheated!”

“I did not!  Just because you’re lousy at cards, doesn’t make everyone else a cheater, Junior.”

“I am not lousy at cards.”

“Carver,  _Gamlen_ beats you at Wicked Grace,” Hawke pointed out.  The mage walked to a corner of the bar, near where a group of thugs appeared to be hassling a well-armed Rivaini woman. Fenris stepped up behind Hawke who held her hand up for him to wait.  The half-dressed Rivaini had the thugs beaten and disarmed within a few seconds.  He found himself smiling at that.  

The Rivaini seemed to notice Hawke.  “You’re new here.”

Hawke smiled.  “Sort of.  Hawke. This is Fenris.” She nudged him in the ribs till he nodded.  “The tall scowling one over there is my brother Carver.  The cheerful one next to him is Varric.”

“Isabela. Previously, Captain Isabela.  Sadly, without a ship.  Welcome.”  The dark haired woman jerked her chin at the barkeep for another round.  “Better keep your wits about you.  You’re nothing but tits and ass to the men in this place.”  Fenris looked from the scantily clad Isabela to the armored Hawke and wisely kept his mouth shut. “And they won’t hesitate to grab at both.”  

Fenris crossed his arms at that statement and felt Hawke put her cool hand on his bare elbow.  “Um, thanks for the advice.”

“Although, if your pretty friend here looks threatening enough, maybe they’ll think twice.”  The former captain grinned when he couldn’t think of a response to that.  She looked back at Hawke.  “You’re Ferelden aren’t you?  You have that look about you.  I was in Denerim not too long ago.  You might be --”

“Templars, three o’clock.”  Fenris felt Hawke jump as Carver stuck his head between them.

“Shit.  Here?  At this hour?  Don’t they have a curfew?”  Fenris tried to shift out of her way without being obvious.  While he generally approved of the way the Southerners handled their mages, locking Hawke up would help no one.   _And I’d never see her again.  She’s a_ mage. _It would be better.  Shut up._

“Hell if I know. Maybe they’re officers or something.”  

“Find Beth, make sure _she stays where she is._ ”  Hawke’s fingers had begun to dig into his elbow.  Carver nodded and gave his sister a kiss on the cheek.  Fenris was puzzled until he turned to wave at her as if he were saying good-night and heading for his room.   _They really were used to hiding in plain sight._

The dwarf came up behind them.  “What’s the plan?”

“There’s no plan, we’re just friends in a bar.”  Hawke released his elbow and turned toward the bar, hunching her shoulders.  Varric swung himself up onto a stool beside her.  

“Is there anything I can do?”  Fenris asked.  

She glanced at him in surprise.  “Just keep an eye out.  I’m going to add whiskey to my elfroot buzz.”  She motioned for Corff.

“Um, I think your new friend is calling you over.”  Fenris cleared his throat.  The Rivaini had gone to the Templars’ table and was leaning on it talking to them.  All of them were laughing.  The mage hunters were not in uniform, so they had been tough to spot.  Apparently, he needed to learn the signs as well as Hawke and her brother did.  Hawke sighed and got up.

She shrugged.  “At this point, it would be a lot more suspicious if I didn’t go.” She straightened her quilted tunic.  “Varric, it’s been fun.”  

“Oh, no you don’t.  You’re not getting out of this partnership that easy.”  The dwarf followed her, and Fenris cursed himself for a fool and followed them.

“Hawke!  This is my friend, Cullen!  He’s a friend of the Hero’s!”  Isabela was beaming as she gestured to the handsome, fair-haired man in higher quality, if plainer armor than usually seen in a place like this tavern.  His hair curled in the humidity of Kirkwall, his square jaw set in annoyance, even if his eyebrow was raised in amusement at the rogue's antics.  His shield where it leaned against the wall next to him, though equally plain, had seen use and Fenris would bet his next silver the man's blade would be in the same condition.

The dark haired Templar with the sharp nose set his mug down heavily, “Why didn’t you mention that!  He’s the king now, isn’t he?”

Cullen rolled his eyes, but Hawke butted in.  “Every Ferelden knows the Hero’s an elf.  A woman.  And a mage.  And the Chancellor,” she’d raised her voice slightly, crossing her arms and looking around.

Fenris wanted to strangle her himself.  However someone the next table heard Margaret and raised his own pint, drunkenly proclaiming, "To Fereldan!  Where even our elf women are tougher than you Marcher pricks!"   Which started a chorus of boos and Kirkwall versus Ferelden pride and neatly drowned out their conversation.  Startled, he looked at Margaret.  She winked.  Maybe she did know what she was about.

Cullen turned his heavily lashed brown eyes toward Hawke as if he’d figured out what she’d just done.   _This one’s dangerous.  He’s far too smart._  “She’s right.  I was at the Hero’s Harrowing myself.  She’s very good at what she does. I was a recruit with the King, but I doubt he remembers me.  I only barely remembered him myself.” Long, calloused fingers with broad palms carefully turned the mug around as the man eyed Isabela.

It was the dark haired templar’s turn to roll his eyes.  Over the noise, and several impending bar fights, he all but shouted, “Well, then, I’ll take my Marcher ass over and get me another damned pint.”  

When the other man left, Isabela launched herself into the blond man’s lap so hard his head bounced off the wall he was leaning against.  “Isabela… now is not a goo--”

“Please tell me she sent you here, c’mon!  What’s going on!  It’s got to be good!”  He grabbed her hands that were prying at his armor.  

“Isabela, _stop_.  I actually am here as a Templar, not as a Brother.  The _Hero_ didn’t send me.”  He looked at her for a moment, waiting for a reaction.  Fenris couldn’t see her face.  

She slapped at his breastplate.  “Fine.  Allow me to introduce you to my friends, then.  Varric, Fenris.”  She jerked her thumb over shoulder at each of them.  Then, she grabbed Hawke by the front of her tunic and yanked her closer and off-balance so that the shorter woman was forced to put one hand on Isabela’s shoulder and the other on her bare thigh or risk falling into the Templar as well.  “And Hawke.”  And before either he or Varric could do anything, the former captain was thoroughly kissing the apostate mage while straddling the Templar’s lap.  When he realized Hawke was kissing her back, complete with tongue, his armor grew rather warm and very uncomfortably tight.  He had the presence of mind to glance at the Templar, however, and noted the man was staring at both women, brown eyes wide, trying to look away, but completely incapable.  Maker, the man even made turning red look good.  Hawke was definitely going nowhere _near_ this "Gallows."  

In a very quiet voice that Fenris wasn’t sure he heard correctly over the Marcher versus Fereldan shouting match behind them, Varric muttered, “If I put this in a book, no one would believe it!”

The two women were still kissing, Hawke standing a little more securely.  Isabela’s hand had migrated from its grip on on Hawke’s tunic to run her fingers through the mane of thick, red hair.  Fenris clenched his own fingers, his armor growing tighter and more painful.  The dark-haired Templar arrived back at the table and stared at the two women as he sat down on the other side of the table.  “You have all the bloody fuckin’ luck.”

“Isabela.”  Fenris was mildly sympathetic to the crack in the man’s voice, though at the moment he was fighting the urge to yank Hawke away from the wench and drag her off somewhere to shake some sense into her or erase Isabela from her lips and run his own fingers through that hair.   _Maker, you just met the woman!_  The Templar cleared his throat.  “Isabela!”  

“Hey, it was just getting interesting!”  His companion objected.  

The Rivaini let Hawke’s mouth go and the mage straightened up, turning blindly toward Fenris and Varric.  Her lips were swollen and her cheeks were flushed.  She walked toward them, only stumbling at the last second, causing Fenris to catch her around the waist with one arm.  She leaned on him, hiding her face with one hand, her other hand on Varric’s shoulder.  “Are you all right?”

“Just give me a minute.”  She ducked her head, and combed her fingers through her curls where Isabela had tousled them.  “That woman can kiss!”  He tried not to pay attention to the fact that her deep breaths were bringing her breasts into direct contact with his arm.  Fasta Vass!  _My armor is getting even tighter.  It has been too long.  That’s all this is._  At least her hair drowned out the stench of the Hanged Man.

The Templar had his hands on Isabela’s legs now.  “Was that an attempt to make me jealous, or perhaps excite me?”

The pirate arched her back and stretched.  “Depends, did either work?”

Cullen smirked. “I think you know me better than whether or not I’ll answer that question.”

“Spoilsport.”  She swung her legs off him and stood to go, straightening her corset.  Fenris tensed as he grabbed the dark-skinned woman on the upper arm, his paler skin a stark contrast.  Isabela leaned down, her eyebrows raised, the other Templar eyeing her cleavage.  

“Tits and ass, indeed,” Hawke muttered.  She’d turned to watch Isabela, but the back of her head was toward Fenris.  He didn’t know if he was happy he couldn’t still see her kiss-bruised lips or not.  But she was still leaning on him, making his arm around her waist a necessity. _Probably still feeling the effects of the healing potions._   Isabela’s longer hair hid Cullen’s mouth, but it was obvious he whispered something to her.  She smiled broadly in response and leaned over and kissed him almost as thoroughly as she’d just kissed Hawke.  

“Another time, Tiger.” She lightly tapped the Templar under the chin and headed up the stairs toward the tavern’s rooms.  Glancing over her shoulder, she jerked her head, “C’mon, Hawke.”  

Hawke shook her head and imitated Isabela, “C’mon, boys.”  Fenris rolled his eyes and Varric chuckled.   Behind them, the rougher sounding Templar was guffawing loud enough to be heard over the incipient brawl.  “Tiger!”

“One word, Samson, and you’ll be cleaning latrines for a month.”

“Yes, sir!  Knight Captain Sir!  Tiger!  Or should I say, Knight Captain Tiger!  Hah!”

“Samson…”

Fenris snorted and walked faster to catch up to Hawke, which conveniently put him at eye level with her swaying hips as she climbed the short steps.  He stifled a groan.  That wasn’t what he’d intended.  He doubted Hawke planned to get back into Isabela’s arms either.  As the mage reached the top of the stairs, Isabela grabbed her arm and yanked her to pin her against the wall and leaned.  Hawke immediately put her hands up on the Rivaini’s shoulders.  Fenris crossed his arms and waited.  “Where did you learn to kiss like that?  I almost feel like I owe you a favor now!”

Hawke blinked.  “ _That_ was because you were going to ask me for help?”

“Well… I was distracting the Templars because I needed a favor.”  Isabela straightened up and dropped her hands, shrugging slightly.  “The kiss was a bonus.”  Varric laughed until he had to lean on a wall.

“What is going on?” The red haired woman in the Guard’s uniform came out of a suite.

Varric stopped laughing long enough to gasp, “Hawke started a Fereldan versus Marcher barfight to distract two Templars downstairs.  If you hurry, maybe you can even get them to help you break it up.”

“Templars?  No wonder Carver rushed into your suite like a scalded cat!  Are you alright, Hawke?”   _How could she possibly think no one cared about her because she was a mage?_

 

“Yes, Aveline, I’m fine.  Apparently, we’ll need to help our new friend here.  Varric?  Fenris?”  She linked her arm with Isabela’s and began to lead her to where he assumed Varric’s suite was.  The taller red head rolled her eyes and waded into the fray downstairs, her loud voice projecting over the incipient riot.   

He thought about following Aveline to back her up, but when he turned to look for her, realized she’d already shamed the Templars into backing her up and was half way to restoring order to Corff’s common room.  He decided she would not welcome his assistance.  And since he’d last been seen with an arm around Hawke, it would probably remind them of her presence.  

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t taken Isabela long to convince Hawke of her need for assistance.  She _had_ played up the harassed businesswoman angle a little much for his taste, though, considering Hawke had already agreed.  

Of course, a bloody ambush in the Chantry’s main sanctuary wasn’t something any of them had anticipated.  He wasn’t quite sure he believed in this Maker or his Bride, but fighting in a place where people worshipped still struck him as wrong.  He did object when Hawke asked him to stand lookout at the main entrance with her sister.  “No.”

“Fenris, please.”  She stepped to one side with him as the others attempted to clean up the signs of battle.  “Just watch over her, we won’t take long.”

Hawke had been far too close to most of the heavy fighting, her spells did more damage than her sister’s, therefore, for Hayder’s men, it had been a priority to remove her first.  She was still wounded, and still overdosed on elfroot and exhausted from her earlier illness.  The minute the magebane had left her system, she’d slung fireballs and lightning and healing for everyone else as if she wasn’t on the verge of collapse. _He could -- Don’t.  Don’t trust her.  You’ll never be free._

“Fine.”  Irritated, he followed the other mage outside.

He stood impatiently in the center of the courtyard while she leaned against the wall, seemingly just as exhausted as her sister. “Thank you,”  she told him.  “For, you know.”  

Fenris blinked, trying to remember what she could possibly be thanking him for.  There’d been a rogue, attempting to sneak up behind her while she worked the Fade, and he’d put an end to the woman’s lethal ambitions fairly quickly.  “You’re welcome.”

Warm brown eyes met his.  “Mags told me you don’t much like mages.  I am sorry, for whatever it’s worth.”

The sneer crept automatically to his lip.  “Very little.”

He had to give her credit though, she was undaunted.  “The magister put lyrium under your skin?”

“So I was told.”   _Where in damnation was Hawke?_

The younger mage was somehow completely unfazed by his unfriendliness.  “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.  Sometimes.”   _No, never, just don’t touch me._

“There’s always someone who has to give us a bad name,” her tone of voice was sorrowful, she was looking at the ground, her hands together folded in front of her, thumbs playing with a pleat on her skirt.

He turned on her, ready shout at her.  But this was Hawke’s little sister.  “Perhaps that’s why Circles were created.”

She was prevented from answering by Varric walking out of the Chantry looking backward, laughing.  Hawke followed him, her face lit up by a wide smile, her jewel green eyes twinkling.  Carver followed, scowling.  Isabela brought up the rear and must have done something to the young man because he jumped, moving his hips oddly and looked back at the pirate, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.  Isabela wiggled her eyebrows and grinned before catching up to Hawke and slinging an around the mage’s shoulders.  “So, what say we all go back to the Hanged Man and celebrate!”  The small group started walking.  Fenris attempted to keep an ear out for any pursuit or any Guardman Pretenders wanting to imitate their companions from earlier.  However, they managed to make it through all of Hightown and Lowtown to the front of the tavern.

Hawke ducked out of Isabela’s embrace, a wide smile on her lips and a wink that somehow promised she’d make it up to her.  “I thought I could, but… I’m sorry, Isabela.  I absolutely have to sleep at some point.”  

Isabela pouted briefly, then grinned.  “I understand.”  She gave Hawke a kiss on the cheek.  “Thank you.  You need anything, you let me know.  I really did not expect Hayder to have quite so many thugs at his beck and call.”  

“They always seem to surprise you with the amount of idiots willing to die for their side, don’t they?”  Hawke responded, her smile widening.

“Good news is, we get to kill them and keep all their stuff!”  Isabela flung her arms wide, laughing.  

Hawked laughed, “Good night, Isabela.  Varric, I’ll see you in the morning.”

The dwarf squinted.  “Not too early, I hope?”

“Maker, no!  Besides, these three still haven’t decided if they’re staying here with you.”   Hawke looked at her siblings and then at Fenris.  

Carver shook his head, “I am not going home.  I think I’d rather drink till I pass out here.”  

Hawke rolled her eyes.  “Fine, Beth?”  The other mage looked indecisively between her brother and sister.  “If it makes you feel any better, Bethany, I just need sleep.  There was magebane on a knife tonight.”

“Oh.  Yeah, I’ll stay.  If it gets too late… I’ll figure something out,”  Bethany smiled as if she’d been given permission to be out late.  

Hawke merely looked like her head hurt as her siblings followed the pirate inside.  “Varric?”

The dwarf laughed, “Don’t worry Hawke, I’ve got them.”

She bent to kiss him on the forehead.  “What would I do without you?”

“Worry a lot more.”

“You have that right.”  The dwarf glanced at Fenris his eyebrows raised.  Fenris returned his look flatly.  Varric chuckled to himself and went inside.  “I can walk myself home, Fenris.”

“I have no intention of letting you do that, nor do I intend to join them in drinking,” he replied, crossing his arms.

“I have no intention of letting you go to Hightown and sleeping in that dump until we’ve made it somewhat livable.  The demons fouled the well, Fenris. And there are dead bodies everywhere.”  She crossed her arms as well.

“You’re going to be difficult.”

“I am.”

“You’re the most stubborn woman I can ever remember meeting.”

“That’s because you’ve not met my mother.”

Fenris snorted.  “Apparently, I’m about to.”

Hawke looked up into the sky, checking the position of the moon.  “Hopefully, she’s asleep and you’ll be spared.”  She turned, and he almost didn’t her mutter, “Hopefully, so will I.”  She glanced over her shoulder, “Oh, and watch out for my dog.”

He glanced her, slightly alarmed.   _What kind of dog?_ But, she was already walking away fairly quickly and he nearly had to run to keep up with her.  He slowed as they approached an even more run-down section of Lowtown than they’d left.  The buildings leaned together as if they couldn’t support the weight of their own rot any more.  Trash collected in the corners and mud and suspicious stains covered the paving stones, painting them a muddy umber in the moonlight instead of what he assumed should have been the original limestone.  He followed Hawke still further up the short steps.  She opened the door and bent but was unable to entirely keep the furry one hundred pound missile from launching itself at him.  “Hopper! Sit!” she hissed in a loud whisper, but it was too late, the large dog had him pinned against the railing. 

“ _Venhedis_ , a mabari?”  He kept his arm across the beast’s throat, not for fear of the teeth, but to keep the drool at bay.  

“He’s been cooped up all day.”  Fenris just looked at her from under his brows.  Hawke grabbed her enthusiastic dog around his neck and dragged him off Fenris.  “Go pee, you fool dog!”  With a sharp bark, the animal scampered off to mark his territory.  She looked at Fenris.  “I’m sorry.  You’d never know he’s a highly trained war dog.”

“The slobber gave him away.”  He responded dryly.

She raised an eyebrow, and exploded into quiet giggles.  “I promise, he’s a lot more formidable if you’re an actual threat.”  

“I’ll take your word for it,” he drawled, letting her go inside first.  She still stood at the door, however and when her mabari came bounding back inside, he understood.  

“Bed, Hopper,” she told the animal in a whisper.  The dog bounded off toward the back of the house, nosing through the door next to the fire place.  Hawke shut the door, leaned her staff with the odd figure of the nude woman against the wall near it, and crossed the room to a chest.  She pulled out a bed roll and handed it to him.  She flashed him a smile in the dim firelight.  “It’s not much, but… well, it’s not much.”

He took the bedroll, his hands brushing hers.  “Hawke.  Thank you.”  Her repeated kindness was wearing away his suspicions of her motives.  He couldn’t fathom why she would continue to be so generous without an ulterior motive.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m being nice,” she whispered, her round face tilted up toward his.  

He blinked at how closely she mirrored his thoughts.  “It had occurred to me.”  

“Well, we’re trying to get the funds to join an expedition into the Deep Roads.  The more blades the better, right?”  He tilted his head.  That was a reasonable request, actually.  

“Why the Deep Roads?”

There was a wry twist to her full lips. “Fortune and glory?”  She shrugged.  “Gets Beth and me out of sight of the Templars for a time.  Gets Carver occupied and out of the Blooming Rose for a while.  And out of Aveline’s jail for defending the honor of his… companions.”

Fenris’ eyebrows went up. “Does he do that a lot?”

“My brother?”  She sighed.  “Maker, yes.  Honorable idiot. He ends up in Aveline’s jail at least once every fortnight over a barfight.”

“I’m sorry, I -- your brother is…”

“Overly galant?  Stupidly protective?”  She sighed.  “Anyway, we’re going tomorrow to speak to a Grey Warden about maps.  If you would care to join us?  Any job we do, you’re welcome to a share.  You won’t go unpaid.  I promise. Oh!”  She held up her index finger and bent her head to open her belt pouch.  She held out two gold and a handful of silver. “We’ll even stop at the cordwainer’s or the armorer’s and see how long a pair of boots would take.”  When he didn’t move, she took his hand and put the money in it, folding his fingers over it.  

He was fairly certain she’d just wildly overpaid him.  “That is... very generous.”

“Oh, well, there was a bounty on the Guardsman Pretenders, too.  So you get part of that.  And part of the loot from Isabela’s, er… friends.”  She ran her fingers through her hair and turned toward the hearth.  “Go ahead and stretch out here.  I doubt Beth and Carver will be home tonight.  Varric usually puts them up if they stay out drinking with him.  And something tells me that Isabela can really put it away.”  Absently, she touched her lips.  She bent to put another log on the fire and he wrenched his eyes away from her ass.

Hawke turned to go into the room the dog entered.  She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.  “Good night, Fenris.”

“Good night, Hawke.”  He spread the bedroll out in front of the fire and took off his armor, leaving the black leathers on.  He cushioned his head on one arm and stared up at the ceiling, not really expecting to fall asleep in such an unfamiliar place.  

To his great surprise, he woke up, shivering.  Of course, he had fallen asleep without covering himself with the bedroll.  He pulled the top layer out from under himself briefly wondering how long he had fallen asleep for.  He was just dozing off when he heard an older female voice call out, “Margaret!  It’s freezing!”  

“Wha-?  Oh.  Yes, Mother, I’ll take care of it.”  The door creaked slightly as Hawke crept from the room she’d been sleeping in.  Fenris closed his eyes to slits, knowing they glowed in the dark, and unwilling to frighten his hostess in case she wasn’t aware of that fact.  When she emerged wearing a very short and very threadbare night shirt, her hair in a loose braid to her shoulder blades, he almost gave himself away as awake by holding his breath entirely.  She knelt in front of the hearth and put two more logs on the fire.  Logs large enough he was actually surprised she could lift them.  He almost stopped breathing again when the shirt rode up to the small of her back while she was lifting the logs.  But if he got up to help her, he’d have to admit he saw her barely dressed.  

Then, she did something that truly surprised him. Instead of conjuring a flame, she stood up and stretched for a small box that was almost out of her reach on the mantle, the shirt riding up yet again.  He was going to have dreams about her ass in those smalls for _weeks._  She knelt back down and used flint and tinder from the box to coax a stronger flame to life than stirring the coals could get her.  He closed his eyes when she moved to crouch over the flames.  He would leave her some dignity.  When he felt the heat on his face from the rekindled fire, he opened his eyes again and almost groaned.  She was entirely silhouetted through the thin fabric of the shirt, her arms raised in a stretch, her back arched.  She was sidelong to him, and the shirt hid nothing.  The fullness of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the roundness of her ass, he felt his leathers grow very uncomfortable as all the blood in his body rushed to his cock.

She dropped her arms and he realized as she turned that she might not be very tall, but what height she had was in her legs and they were all muscle.  He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek.  “Fenris.  I know you’re awake.”

“ _Venhedis._  I apologize.”  He opened his eyes to find her kneeling next to him.  

“It is a tad embarrassing.  Did I wake you, or did the cold?”  He tried to keep his eyes focused on her face.  

“The cold.  I assume you do not wear that often?”  

She looked down at herself.  “All the time, actually.  I just don’t leave the room in it unless everyone’s asleep.”  She smiled.  “If you stay another night, I’ll be sure to wear something else.  Or maybe not.”  She winked.  “Since you’ve seen everything.”  He groaned, covering his eyes.  “Tell me this, Fenris.  Did you at least like what you saw?”

He pulled his arm off his eyes to glare at her.  “Are you fishing for compliments, Hawke?”  

Her green eyes narrowed and her lips tightened.  “You’re an ass.”  She began to rise.

Before she could move further, he snaked his hand out and grabbed her wrist.  Turning over and focusing both eyes on hers, he told her, “You are a beautiful woman, Hawke.  I absolutely liked everything I saw.  But please, get a different shirt.”

She leaned closer to him and he struggled to keep his eyes on her face rather than let them watch the collar of her shirt gape so he could look down it.  “On one condition.”

He realized he was still holding her wrist and released her.  “Name it.”  

“I get to return the favor.”  A slow smile spread across her face at his shocked expression.   _Why in the Void would she want to see_ him?  He was still staring after her as she gracefully rose to her feet and turned to go back into her bedroom.  

Now he really wasn’t going to get any sleep.

 


	8. Talking Without Speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris get a little intense.... and a certain Apostate/Abomination/Grey Warden joins with conditions... of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSWF-ish

Hawke stretched, awareness returning as she slowly woke. She’d expected to hit Hopper at the foot, but her mother must have let him out. Thinking of Hopper reminded her of whom the dog had enthusiastically greeted last night.

And then, what happened after. She stared up at the bunk above her, her blush starting somewhere in her toes and ending at her hairline. “Oh, Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels. I am never going to be able to face him!” She covered her face. Her memory helpfully supplied her with his voice, rougher than usual, _“You are a beautiful woman, Hawke.”_ At least he didn’t think she was hideous. Though, it would be nice to find someone who either didn’t get off on her being a mage, or didn’t flinch from it, either. Someone who just accepted it. Not that she was any more comfortable with her body than with her magic. Not since she’d grown faster than most of the girls in the village. She’d just learned to bluff through her discomfort.

“Yeah, the only one who’s going to be comfortable with your magic is another mage, Maggie. Good luck with that, they’re all locked up in Circles.” She groaned and got out of bed to get dressed. She didn’t put on her full armor, yet, just her bra, a shirt and her pants, tight though they were. How she was starving all the time, but her clothes were tighter in the shoulders and legs and ass, she had no idea.

She opened the door to find a half dressed Fenris bent over the water basin, one of her mother’s red rags in his hand, washing his face. His thick, white hair slicked back, water droplets trailing down well-defined shoulders and arms, muscles disturbingly outlined in lyrium as if to artfully highlight them, his darkly bronzed skin glowing in the poorly filtered morning sun seeping in through the grimy windows and the ill-patched cracks in the walls. Three perfectly spaced lyrium dots sat in the center of his forehead and explained why he continuously allowed his hair to fall in his face. His leather pants rode low on his waist, dipping lower as his abdominal muscles tightened when he moved his arms. A droplet of water poised to fall from his pointed ear.

As striking as he was, though, she was alarmed more at how his hipbones jutted from those very same leather pants and how the well-defined, lyrium-lined muscles didn’t hide his visible ribs. “When was the last time you ate?” She covered her mouth, startled she actually voiced her question. _Good morning, Fenris! How did you sleep, Fenris? Shit, Mags...._ She crossed her arms over her chest and ducked her head.

He turned to her slowly, the rag covering the lower half of his face, his dark green eyes narrowed at her. “Why do you care?” He put the rag down, glaring at her. In the daylight, the hollows under his cheekbones were more prominent.

She could be diplomatic about it, after all, she was hungry, too, or go with far too blunt and truthful. She went with diplomatic. “I am starving. Used too much magic last night. I tend to want to eat an entire bronto after that. Not that I can afford an entire bronto, so we’ll just get something at the Hanged Man. I’m afraid it’s pig oat mash for us.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s their staple breakfast. It’s better than it sounds?” He looked at her. “All right it sounds horrible. I’d rather they didn’t put the bacon _in_ the porridge, too.”

“It’s _in_ the porridge?” He shuddered, closing his eyes as he gave his face one more pass with the damp rag.

“Have ale with it? It’s not so bad?” One eye opened, squinting at her. “Alright, you have me there. But, beggars can’t be choosers and until we strike it rich in the Deep Roads and can buy that bronto for breakfast, pig oat mash it is.” She walked around him to fetch another bucket of clean water from the cistern outside. As she walked past, she felt his hand grab her upper arm, gently, but firmly.

“Hawke.” When she stopped, he released her quickly, as if she burnt him. She raised her eyebrows at him, looking up into his eyes. “I’m sorry. About last night. I shouldn’t have…”

“Is that why you’re standing here half-dressed and dripping water everywhere?” She dropped her arms to her sides.

A corner of his mouth quirked up, “I do pay my debts, Hawke.” He put the cloth down on the side of the basin and her eyes were drawn the movement of his long, deft fingers as he folded the scrap of fabric once before dropping it, the blue-white lyrium highlighting each movement. She really, suddenly wanted to know what his hands would feel like all over her. She bit her lip and pulled her eyes back up his strong, well-muscled arm ( _Maker, Maggie, get control of yourself!_ ) to meet his dark green eyes, one raven-black brow raised. “You haven’t said whether _you_ like what _you_ see?” His tone was amused.

“At the moment, I want to push you up against that basin and kiss you till both our heads spin or I lose control and burn this hovel down around our ears.” She sighed at his wide-eyed expression. “But, since that isn’t a good idea, I’m going out to get some very cold water and dunk my head in it.”

He paused, going very still. “ _Venhedis_ ,” he swore and she found herself turned and crushed against him, his mouth on hers, tongue pushing past her teeth. She let out an involuntary moan as every nerve ending in her body ignited, not with magic, just plain want and need. She ran her hands up his stomach, feeling him tremble under her fingertips, his muscles flex as his arms tightened around her. She moved up his chest, expecting ridges where the lyrium lines were, but finding only smooth skin, marred by old scars. He pulled her tighter against him, one of his hands tangling in her hair, sending more shocks down her spine. His other hand slid up under her untucked shirt and splayed against the small of her back then slid upward to stop at her breast band. _Andraste preserve me, if he unfastens it with one hand, I’m going to jump him right here on the bloody floor._ She felt his hip bump her as he turned her, her bare feet twisting on the compact dirt floor. He lifted her to put her on the table next to the basin, positioning himself between her knees, her hips flush against his, and _Maker_ he was hard. Startled, she lost control of her mana, the Fade opening to her. His lyrium flared, brightly and he moaned against her lips, bucking against her. Margaret yanked her mouth away, feeling the rush of the substance through her skin where she touched him.

“I am so sorry!” She started to push away, her head reeling.

His fingers dug into her back, holding her in place. “Hawke. Stop. I started this. You did not.” He still didn’t release her, though. His fingers were still playing with her hair.

“That was no excuse for me losing control.” Her father's voice echoed in her mind: _There’s no excuse for it. People could get hurt. Don’t be irresponsible!_

“But I made you lose control.” He sounded pleased with himself. He tilted his head to feather light kisses along her neck.

“Yes, you did. But I will not do that to you. We shouldn’t do this again until I know I won’t do that accidentally.” She pulled away.

“I -- You are an odd mage. What if I wanted this?” The words were certain, but his tone was not. He would not meet her eyes.

“If you did, you’d look at me,” she pointed out, tilting her head to try to catch his eyes. _Maker, what had they done to him?_

“As you can tell, Hawke, I did enjoy it.” That sounded more certain. Still, he looked somewhere near her ear.

“Maker’s _breath_ , Fenris, I can still tell that you enjoyed it! Andraste preserve me, I did, too!” She dug her fingers into his arms, laying her forehead on his chest, trying not to think about the fact that he could not meet her eyes after kissing her like that. “But you don’t trust me because I’m a mage. And I’m not sure I trust you not to decide to turn me over to the Gallows or take my heart out of my chest. I don’t have sex with anyone I don’t trust. And right now… to be honest, no distractions. I have to look after my family. Nothing _I_ want matters.”

He muttered more curses in Arcanum under his breath and pushed off, spinning away. He turned back to her and grabbed his shirt off the bedroll, yanking it over his head. “Nothing _you_ \-- Then no more kissing pirates.”

She jumped down of the table and glared at him. “You don’t get to dictate that.”

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,” he growled. She had a moment of confusion as he stalked back toward her. She started to back up, but before she could move, he grabbed her upper arms and she found herself being thoroughly kissed again. Her knees went weak and her hands went to his waist, holding on to him. She parted her lips to catch her breath and that was all the invitation he needed. This time, though, instead of being forceful, he was gentle, caressing her tongue with his, teasing along her lips. His hands slid from her arms to hold her loosely at her hips. For a moment, nothing existed except Fenris. This time, he pulled away first. “I agree we should trust each other. Especially if we are going to work together, as well. But, no more kissing pirates.”

“After that, I’m not sure I want to kiss anyone else anyway.” She blinked slowly up at him, trying to calm her racing heart.

“Good,” that corner of his mouth quirked up again.

“Just don’t think you get to win every argument this way,” she told him, poking him in the chest.

He took her hand and straightened her fingers out. “And you’ll never try this on me?” he asked, pressing his lips to her palm.

She sighed, his lips sending a thrill through her that threatened to make her knees give out. She closed her eyes. “I never said _that_." She opened them again, shoving lightly at his shoulder with her free hand. "Now stop that before all our good intentions get thrown out the window. And you still need boots before we go to Darktown to find this Warden.”

His stomach growled, followed by hers. “And we both need food.” He lowered her hand to their sides, but didn’t let it go. With his other, he lifted one of her ringlets and wound it around one long finger. “May I make one more request?” he asked, looking down at her through the fringe of white hair that had begun to dry and fall into his face, nearly obscuring his green eyes and covering those three dots.

She ran her thumb across the back of his hand, drawing small circles. “Depends on the request, ” she told him, doing her best to ignore the fact that she wanted nothing more than to throw herself at him again when he looked at her like that.

“Keep your hair down. Do not put it up?” Margaret must have waited too long to respond in her surprise. The fingers twining the curl dropped to his side and dark lashes became half moons against his dusky cheeks.

“Fenris! Hey, don’t…. I was surprised, that’s all.” She tentatively reached out and touched his gaunt cheek. “No one likes my hair. ‘Oh, it’s the bloody Ginger Hawke!’ Or my mother, ‘Maggie, you have such unfortunate hair!’ I was just surprised someone actually did. I’ll wear it down. Today, at least. But you’ll have to keep jerks from grabbing it in a fight and snatching it out of my scalp!”

He gave her that half smile again that made her want to throw herself at him. “I’ll defend it with my life.”

Margaret laughed and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Let’s not let it come to that. The hair will grow back. Now, I really am getting more water. It’s my turn at the basin. You can sit outside or something.”

* * *

 

Fenris leaned back in the far-too-hard chair. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten quite that much. Hawke’s dreaded “pig oat mash,” or whatever she’d called it hadn’t been that bad. He might have just been that hungry, however. The ale, perhaps, should be returned to the horse it came out of.

Hawke was finishing hers and laughing at her siblings. She removed the rough-hewn wooden spoon from her lips and smiled. “I don’t know what possessed both of you try to drink a pirate under the table.” He really needed to stop looking at her mouth.

Carver Hawke’s dark-haired head rested on his heavily muscled arm, hiding his eyes. “Shut up, Sister.”

Bethany Hawke had her head leaned back on the hard chair, her own arm flung across her eyes. “I hate you. You’re a terrible person, Mags.”

“Are either of you in any shape to get anything done today?” Hawke asked, scraping her bowl as loudly as she could, she glanced back and caught Fenris’ eye and winked. He had to chuckle quietly. Then cleared his throat as she put the spoon in her mouth upside down, being certain to lick it clean.

Carver didn’t raise his head but told her, “Maybe sometime in the afternoon.”

Varric laughed, “I tried Hawke, I promise, I tried.”

She sighed. “How much do I owe you?” She held on to the end of his sword that lay across her lap as she attempted to reach for her belt pouch. He grabbed the pommel on his before she knocked it onto the floor. It was her idea of a compromise since leaning it against the wall wasn’t any better for the end than laying it on the sticky and filthy floor was good for the pommel. And she’d glared at him when he was simply going to sit down and be uncomfortable with it still on his back. He swallowed some of the terrible ale. He really didn’t understand her. Nor did he understand why he was tolerating her, nor his attraction to her. _Venhedis,_ she was a _mage_!

“Put your money away, Hawke. They paid for themselves!” The dwarf sounded amused. Hawke turned toward the blond rogue, astonished.

“Are -- _Really_?”

The younger mage uncovered her eyes long enough to glare at her sister. “Yes, Sister, we actually paid for ourselves. We do have money. You do see that we get a share from the jobs we work.” She squinted at her sister. “Why is your hair down? And where’s Hopper?”

Hawke busied herself by drinking the horrible ale. Quickly. Bethany Hawke turned her brown eyes to Fenris. Who met her gaze guilelessly. He surreptitiously let go of the curl he'd been twining around his fingers and lifted his own tankard to his lips. Mostly to keep from indulging himself further than to avoid her sister’s eyes. He smiled into the vessel at Hawke's shiver as she dissembled. “I felt like it. I can’t seem to find the little leather tie I usually use anyway. And _Hopper_ is with _Mother_.” The two sisters seemed to be glaring at one another. Or at least Bethany was glaring at Hawke. Fenris couldn’t see the elder sister’s face where he sat. Probably just as well, or he’d watch her the entire morning.

“So, Hawke, we going to get those maps today?” Varric interrupted the staring contest between the sisters.

“Of course, Varric, right after I take Fenris to get boots. And then, we’ll take a trip to Sundermount. The Hawke family has a debt to pay.” Carver groaned into the table.

* * *

 

Fenris stared at the merchant. “You want how much for two pair of boots? And you’re only going to give me one of them right now?” He forced his fingers to unclench as he fought the urge to impale the suddenly ashen human on his fist.

“He’s right. Are you trying to take advantage of my friend because he’s not from Kirkwall?” Hawke argued with the cordwainer.

The pirate leaned over the counter, giving the merchant an eyeful of her ample assets, “Oh, I’m sure it’s not that, Hawke. Maybe it’s because we’re with him and you’re a Dog Lord and I’m from Rivain.”

Fenris found the corner of his mouth pulling upward in spite of his annoyance. “Maybe it’s because you’re both women.” He crossed his arms and turned his full scowl on the now-sweating dark-haired human whose eyes were shifting back and forth between the three of them. “Or perhaps, he objects to elven customers?”

“Why would I object to a knife ears’ coin? It spends the same as anyone else’s! Just gotta charge more to cover me expenses if you don’ come back! And you Dog Lords’re no better!” The merchant’s eyes shifted from Hawke to Fenris. Isabela reached across the counter and yanked him closer by the simple expedient of grabbing his apron front. Hawke sidled closer to Fenris, and he caught the scent of her perfume on the slight breeze blowing in through the open door. Venhedis, she was distracting.

“Listen, you sniveling, ball-less git, you will get my friend his boots, and on time and for one and a half gold, or I won’t be responsible for the accidents that befall your establishment in the near future. Such bad luck occurs around evil, scheming little rodents like you. Fires, thievery. Equipment failure. Suppliers just up and deciding they’ve found greener pastures. Have I made myself clear? Or do I need to involve the Guard?” The impressive part was that Isabela never raised her voice, never drew one of her daggers. Just kept a death grip on the man’s apron and and met his eyes unflinchingly.

“Uh, no. No, messere.” The man was practically trembling. Isabela released him and he spun to the inventory rack behind him. Grabbing up the promised pair of softer black boots that were ready now, he almost threw them at Isabela. “Here!” She counted out the promised coins before Fenris could reach for his own purse. She paused long enough to wink at him. Hawke crossed her arms and shook her head.

“We’ll be back in a week for the second pair. If they’re not ready, well…” She looked around, a doubtful twist to her full lips. “It’s a lovely shop. It’d be a shame if something were to happen to it. Maybe the Guard should come look a little closer at those boxes from Orlais over there.” The merchant’s eyes nervously darted toward the crates. “And I see I struck a nerve. Don’t play Wicked Grace, friend. You’re absolutely terrible at bluffing.”

* * *

 

When they finally left the store, Fenris carried the boots in his arms, uncertain exactly as to when or where he was supposed to put them on. To his surprise, Bethany and Varric met them outside the enclosed merchant’s stall. “Well?” Mostly, he was surprised to see Bethany. She hadn’t appeared to want to see daylight before they left the tavern, earlier.

“Tried to cheat us, of course. Not even good leather. Wanted a month. For plain, black leather boots. That we’d still have to take to an armorer.” Hawke rolled her eyes. “He thought because Fenris and I weren’t from around here, he could get away with it.” She linked her arm with Isabela’s and smiled brightly up at the pirate. “Isabela set him straight.” Fenris felt jealousy uncoil itself, hot and warm and damp, somewhere in his middle. He scowled to himself, irritated he was letting himself grow attached that quickly, to a _mage. You asked her not to kiss any more pirates. And she’s not. Now stop and put the bloody boots on._ He leaned against a wall, dusted his feet off and began putting them on; the straps and buckles tightened securely enough, but the extra leather needed to be trimmed. Before he could say anything, Hawke was crouched in front of him with a belt-knife, trimming the leather.

He stared down at the top of her head bemusedly as Isabela told her, “I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t have done, Hawke.” Hawke shoved the bits of leather into her pocket and reached blindly for the wall he was leaning on as she looked over her shoulder at the other woman.

He caught her hand and helped her stand as she responded, swiveling her head back toward him. “Nonsense, Isabela. We’d have probably had to beat some sense into that idiot before he treated us fairly.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Fenris.” He inclined his head, but before he could say anything, Bethany, dressed in the cobbled-together chain shirt and skirt that seemed to pass as her combat gear, grabbed her sister’s arm and pulled her away.

“Come on!”

Hawke laughed, smiling up at her sister. “I thought you were too hungover for this today?”

“I went back to Gamlen’s with Carver and decided that life was too short to be stuck under the same roof with both of them while they were hung over. Also? How often do you get to meet an actual Grey Warden?” Bethany’s smile was wide and happy, her brown eyes dancing. “So I changed and rushed out, running into Varric. Who was coming to meet _you_.”

Hawke shook her head and started leading her sister away, Isabela on the other side of Bethany. He and Varric fell in behind them. “I doubt very much, Beth, that this Grey Warden will be anything like Da’s tales. He’ll probably be big and smelly and have a thick black beard, and just generally gruff and rude.”

Bethany nearly skipped alongside her sister, “But what if he knew the King? And… oh! The _Hero_? Maybe he knows stories about them!”

“Sweetness, _I_ know the King and the Hero,” Isabela told her, taking hold of her other arm.

The younger mage’s head turned toward the pirate, “You do! Is she as pretty as the stories say? Is the King really in love with an elf mage? I’ll bet he’s very handsome, too.”

Fenris blinked. Maggie glanced at him over her shoulder and grinned. “Oh, Sweetness, she has him wrapped around her little finger. Not in a bad way… just in the way that every beautiful woman has a man who loves her and dotes on her. If she asked for one of the moons, he’d try to find a way to pull it out of the sky! He’s very dashing. And she’d try to get the other moon for him.” And Isabela leaned closer to her, “They truly love each other as much as the stories say.”

Bethany sighed. “How romantic!”

As they walked behind, Varric pointed out, “Wasn't there another man? An assassin?”

Isabela laughed. “Oh... _Zevran_. I wouldn't say he came between them so much as _came_ between them.”

Fenris shook his head to interrupt that it didn’t sound romantic at all. But Varric beat him to his response. “So the rumors are true.”

Isabela shrugged her shoulders and glanced back at the dwarf. Hawke just shook her head, her red curls bouncing; Fenris hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Depends on the rumors, Varric. If you're talking about the ones where the Hero left the King brokenhearted to take up with the Crow? I have an excellent castle in South Reach to sell you. Or maybe the one where the Hero spurned both men and they now consort only with each other? Well... as appealing as that idea might be… Especially since I'm the one the stories have her spurning them for?” She tapped her chin with her free hand, smiling dreamily, before glaring, “Well, you’d be buying the same rotten bilgewater.”

The pirate leaned her head on the young mage’s shoulder. “I helped Zevran bring someone here a few months ago.” Fenris narrowed his eyes as Hawke's shoulders stiffened. She let go of her sister’s arm with the pretense of adjusting her staff, but her head turned sharply toward Isabela as she continued, “He said he missed both of them terribly. He wouldn't even take me up on my offer of a little stress relief. So, it's safe to say my old friend has fallen for The Hero and The King, and they for him. He’s all but married. I never would have thought!”

The younger Hawke sighed. “Oh, my... that's even _more_ romantic.”

Isabela laughed, “They even adopted a little girl. Though, I guess the King was the only one who could officially adopt her. She's a handful. But when my friend wasn't talking about his lovers, he was talking about his little girl. It was very domestic. It was almost nauseating.”

“I don’t know,” Hawke said, walking a lot faster. Fenris found himself lengthening his strides to keep up with her. “It sounds very sweet,” she said, over her shoulder, breathlessly. _What was she up to now?_ She turned the corner to head for Darktown.

* * *

 

Fenris had to admit a certain relief that he wasn’t barefoot as he followed Hawke into Darktown. Boots did feel odd after what he could only guess was a lifetime going barefoot, but judging from the muck that clung to the new leather, that was not something he wanted to feel between his toes. The smell alone guaranteed that.

“I really hate Darktown,” Bethany muttered to no one in particular.

“We’re not particularly popular down here anyway, Sunshine. Let’s hope we can be in and out before the Carta sends a welcoming committee,” Varric responded, his brown eyes attempting to watch every angle possible. “Fortunately, the clinic’s not far. Hawke, turn left and go up those stairs, then make another left.” The mage waved her hand in acknowledgement of the instructions, her pace still hurried. Fenris wrenched his eyes away from watching her hips move. He never should have kissed her that morning. All he was able to think about now was doing it again. She’d been warm and soft and had actually let him be as rough or as gentle as he wanted. _Pressing her up against one of the cleaner dirty walls..._ He caught Isabela eyeing Hawke's ass, too, and forced his face blank.

He was trying to shake the almost physical memory of Hawke's lips on his and the slide of her tongue along his when she stopped short and he almost ran into her. He had to grab her shoulders to keep from hurting her with his armor. She tilted her head back to smile up at him. He ducked his head, inhaling sharply. She definitely smelled better than their surroundings. He tightened his fingers slightly and released her, but not before catching the dwarf’s knowing smirk. Fenris clenched his jaw.

The clinic, surprisingly, was nearly empty. A very tall, fair-haired man stood with his back to the door, leaning over a boy on a narrow cot; the boy’s parents standing at the head and the foot. The lyrium under Fenris’ skin nearly vibrated with the amount of magic the healer was apparently pushing into the sick child. He followed Hawke as she approached, her hands down at her sides, but palms facing outward. The near-universal sign among mages to each other that no threat was intended. Bethany held her hands the same way.

The man staggered and the father stepped forward to catch him, just as the little boy rose, the color in his cheeks looking better than when the group had entered the clinic. The family helped the mage prop himself on the cot then quietly left after bowing their gratitude to the Healer. The healer must have exhausted himself. He seemed to stop using his mana, but the lyrium under Fenris’ skin still itched. Hawke motioned for everyone to stay back. Bethany didn’t listen and Fenris tried to reach out and grab the other mage but she slipped past.

The tall man spun, bringing up a shield or an augmentation of some sort that Fenris couldn’t identify, the odd vibrations he was feeling throwing off all sense of familiarity he usually had with basic magic spells. “I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?”

Bethany stepped forward before her sister could say anything, her hands up, palms out. “We’re just here to talk.”

“Or we could be here to practice our melodrama,” Fenris heard Hawke mutter as he caught up to her. He bit his lips on the urge to laugh. She sighed and walked past her sister, her hands still at her sides, but still held palms out, “Look, we heard you were a Grey Warden. We just want to ask about the Deep Roads.”

He looked at each of their faces and Fenris glanced behind them when he realized the fair-haired man had focused on someone behind the Hawkes. Isabela. Of course the pirate would be involved. “Did the Wardens send you to bring me back, Isabela?”

The Rivaini woman made a face. “Why in the Maker’s name would I do _that_? Sort of short one ship right now.”

“How did you---?” The mage listed to one side, Bethany started forward as if to grab him, but he caught himself against the cot. He shook his head, clearing it or in denial, Fenris wasn't sure. “Not that it matters. I’m not going. They made me get rid of my cat.” He slumped tiredly, scrubbing his face with its two-day growth of stubble with his hands.

Bethany stopped moving forward and dropped her hands to her sides. “You had a cat… in the Wardens?” She sounded as confused as Fenris felt.

He nodded, smiling fondly. “His name was Ser-Pounce-a-Lot. And he hated the Deep Roads.”

Hawke put her hand to her head. “You had a cat. Named Ser-Pounce-a-Lot. In The Deep Roads.” She glanced back at Varric. “Am I hearing this right?”

“I’m beginning to wonder if we all walked through a patch of Chokedamp. You feeling feverish, elf?” the dwarf responded, shaking his head as Fenris covered a laugh with a cough. Hawke’s eyes shifted to him. All he could do was shrug. Perhaps they were all feverish.

“He was a gift from the Hero herself. She found him stalking tainted rats. He was a noble beast.” The mage sounded defensive. Pride crept back into his voice. “Almost got ripped in half by a glenlock once. Swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood, too.” Fenris rolled his eyes. Why were they listening to cat stories? He edged up to stand closer to Hawke. She was rubbing her forehead.

Bethany, however, was rapt. Of course she was. Her wide, dark eyes were fixed on the mage’s face. He must have missed the rest of the story or Hawke interrupted the mage, “So you came to Kirkwall just to escape the Wardens?”

The man’s hazel eyes slid to the left before focusing back on Hawke. So, he was about to lie. But not before his eyes widened, looking at the redhead fully for the first time, his eyes darting from her head to her feet and back up. The Warden swallowed. Fenris was torn between not blaming him and ripping his heart out through his chest. “You-you say that like it’s a small thing.” Bethany was listening to the man with rapt attention.

Under his breath, Fenris asked Hawke, “Are you believing anything he says?”

Without turning toward him, Hawke kept her voice at a whisper as well. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“You learn how to look for lies, as a slave.”

She glanced at him sharply, her bright green eyes searching his face. “Understood.” Louder, she said, turning back to the taller man, “I’ve always heard that joining the Wardens is for life.”

The man's voice turned wry. “‘The hopelessly tainted by Darkspawn,’ and ‘Doomed to die in the Deep Roads,’ don’t go away.”

Varric chuckled, “So, you duck out of meetings and avoid the parties and you don’t have to pay your dues? Maybe I should try that with the Merchants’ Guild.”

“I thought you already did that with the Merchants’ Guild, Varric,” Hawke drawled. Fenris bit back a laugh. He needed to stop finding her so damned charming. She shook her head. “Look, we’re part of an expedition into the Deep Roads. Any information you give us could save lives.”

He scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I will die a happy man if I never have think about the blighted Deep Roads ever again. I’m not interested --”

Hawke cut him off with a chop of her hand. “Look, I appreciate the whole hermit healer act, I really do. But that’s what it is, an act.”

“Mags!” Bethany started to object. Isabela started laughing. Fenris had to admit if this was a gamble on Hawke’s part, it was a risky one. He stared at her, his eyebrows raised, trying to figure out what she was hoping to accomplish.

“Hawke?” Varric sounded slightly strangled.

“You obviously don’t remember me. But _I_ remember _you_. My brother and I met you and got you into the city. You were with a very charming assassin, as I recall. And apparently, come to find out, he’s friends with the King and the Hero. Very good friends. So, unless there’s more than one assassin named Zevran running around dropping off random Grey Wardens into a city overstuffed with Ferelden refugees with which to blend in… You’re not just here to set broken legs and heal the poor from Chokedamp.” She crossed her arms and Fenris could almost feel her stare the Warden down. He ducked his head to hide the fact that he was grinning.

The tall man frowned, his brows drawing down. The lyrium along Fenris’ arms itched when first the Warden, then the now-familiar feeling ran along his lyrium markings as Hawke prepared to rip through the Veil. He slid one hand down toward the hilt of his blade and readied himself to ignite his markings. He heard Varric curse softly behind him. Bethany stepped forward between them, her hands out toward both. “Really? Are you serious? Mags! Stop this right now! Ser! She didn’t mean any harm. Please. We just need your help.” The Warden’s face twisted in shock and his hands clenched, a strange blue light flashed across his eyes for a short second. Hawke was the first to release, however. She had not moved, nor changed her expression the entire time. She was, after all, Fenris reminded himself, a skilled Apostate, experienced at hiding her ability.

The prickling along his arms went away, but he didn’t release the hilt just yet. Fenris wasn’t sure he trusted any of the mages. _Even Hawke? Venhedis!_ The Warden seemed to think for a moment. “All right. A favor for a favor. If that’s acceptable. You help me? I help you?”

Hawke cocked her head. “Let’s be more specific. And narrow. I don’t do anything involving children or animals.” Fenris coughed into his hand.

“Is… your man all right? He seems to cough a lot.” There was something of a sneer of contempt on the man’s patrician face. Fenris had almost been prepared to call him handsome. Now he had a brief fantasy of shattering the aquiline nose.

“I am fine. And I am not _her_ … man. Do continue with your bargaining.”

Hawke was smart enough not to step closer to him, but she did lean closer, and whisper, “I’m fairly certain he didn’t mean that in a servant sort of way, Fenris.” He didn’t give her a response other than a rasping grunt and a brush of his gauntleted knuckles against her gloved hand. Aloud, she said, “What is your favor?” He was also beginning to feel guilty about asking her for help right away, too. Everyone seemed to and she bent over backward to accomodate.

“One of the reasons I’m here is because of a friend. A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows.” Next to him, Isabela made a sound. “Somehow, the Templars learned of my plans to get him out. Help me save him. Tonight. Help me bring him safely past them and you shall have your maps.”

Bethany glanced at her sister, then back at the Warden. A silent conversation seemed to happen between the two women before the younger mage walked forward and linked her arm with the Warden, her smile wide and genuine as she led him further into the clinic. “Please, tell me about your friend. My sister is going to make the plans.”

Hawke turned her back to the pair, with Varric adjusting to keep Bethany in his sight. Fenris raised an eyebrow at the seamlessness of it. Hawke looked at the three of them, her green eyes wide. “Shit. We have to get that amulet to the top of Sundermount tonight. Our instructions were _very_ clear. We have a deadline. As in literally.”

Varric rubbed his chin. “Do all of you have to take it? I mean, obviously Leandra isn’t going.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at the dwarf. “What are you thinking of, in that marvelously twisty brain of yours, Varric?”

He grinned. “Well, we obviously can’t make two of you, and I’m the next best thing, right?”

Hawke snorted. “I suppose you are. Who will you take?”

“Sunshine will probably have to be separated from Blondie via a crowbar after this. Even if he is currently checking out your ass over her shoulder." Fenris glanced up and clenched his jaw. The blond Warden did indeed have his eyes glued to Hawke's back. Hawke rolled her eyes. "Rivaini, you in for some breaking and entering, or would you rather walk up a mountain in the dark?” Varric’s grin got even wider as the pirate tapped her chin, pretending to consider.

“Hmm, as much as I’m sure I’d love the view walking behind Hawke and this gorgeous elf the entire way, I think staying in the city and sleeping in my own bed would be much nicer.” Hawke laughed quietly, catching Fenris’ eyes. He glanced away and hooked his hands around his belt. _The pirate assumes I will follow Hawke. Will I? I trust the other mages less. But Hawke... without protection..._

The dwarf looked up at him. “Elf?”

Fenris' own voice surprised him. “I’m with Hawke.”

“Color me astonished," the dwarf's voice was wry. Fenris' head jerked toward him in anger, but the shorter man wasn't looking at him any longer, he was back to watching the Warden and Bethany. "Though, it'll leave you short someone with Isabela's and my… peculiar skillset, Hawke.”

She sighed. “And it’ll leave you short any heavy hitters because Aveline won’t be up for breaking and entering. And I’m not sure _what_ Carver will do. Maybe you should take Hopper at least. He’ll listen to Beth. And you, Varric.”

The dwarf nodded, “That’s not a bad idea. Though I’d hate to deprive the poor boy of a romp in the country.”

“Hopper will be fine. I’m sure he’ll enjoy urinating in The Gallows,” Hawke pointed out, her smile widening. Varric made a disgusted face and Isabela threw her head back and laughed loudly. “I’ll drop him off at the Hanged Man for you. We’ll need to get equipment to stay out of the city overnight. I doubt we’ll make it back before nightfall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr, btw: siawrites.tumblr.com


	9. Listening Without Hearing

 

Carver Hawke glared at his sister and the elf with the strange tattoos.  “You’re going to let Beth help this Warden with no more backup than Varric, a pirate we just met, and our _dog_?” 

“Well, _you_ could meet them in The Hanged Man and wait for nightfall and I’ll take Hopper.”  The mabari barked his agreement with this plan.  His sister absently rubbed the dog’s ears.  “Or we’ll ask Aveline what she wants to do.”  Mags shrugged.  “Now that I’m thinking about it, chances are, she probably won’t want to be away from the city the whole night.”

“You’re probably right about that. 'I have responsibilities, Carver. You're too young to understand.'"  He grunted.  "Fine. Let me get my bedroll.”  He turned on his heel and stumped gracelessly into their shared bedroom, yanking what he’d optimistically called his bedroll off the top bunk. 

 “Get mine while you’re at it?”  his sister called.

“Of course, Your Worship!  Can I get her Ladyship anything else?”  he groused as he rolled both thick quilts up with the thin and lumpy pillows and tied both together.  He knew he'd end up carrying both anyway since his sister's staff was heavy enough.  Bloody thing weighed more than his sword thanks to that damned statue of Andraste on top.  At least he hoped it was the Maker's Bride.  Their father had a bizarre sense of humor at times, after all.  

Mags would never thank him for his extra effort on her behalf.  Of his three siblings, only Bethany ever thanked him for anything.  Not that Locke had stuck around much past his 16th birthday.  _Now what made me think of_ that _jackass?_   With any luck Mags’ twin was in the belly of a damned Ogre.  Shaking his head at himself, he hefted the combined bedrolls alongside the two-handed blade across his back and rejoined his sister.

She and the elf were glaring at each other from far too close together, having an argument in hushed whispers, drowned out by Mother's and Gamlen's bickering by the fireplace.  "Leandra, be reasonable!"

"Do not talk to me of reason!  You put us in this position!" Leandra’s blue eyes narrowed.  He'd been told all his life he had her eyes.  He'd never really agreed.  Except for their color, they were Mags' eyes.  The older woman leaned forward and jabbed her finger at Gamlen who winced at the impact.  "If it weren't for you, my children wouldn't be risking life and limb on a daily basis!"  Carver rolled his eyes.  It was the same argument yet again.  He shook his head and ignored them.

 "'Bye, Mother, we're leaving to sell our immortal souls to an unholy witch!  Try not to kill Uncle while we're gone!"  He snapped his fingers for Hopper to precede him out the door.  He'd wait for Margaret where it was quieter.  Whenever she and the elf got done hissing at each other.

They'd quit hissing and settled for quiet glares by the time they'd reached Hightown.  He didn't care what they were arguing over.  He didn't want to know.  The energy between them made his skin crawl, even when they were arguing.  The idea of Mags snogging some guy she just met turned his stomach, no matter how badass the man looked in his black armor. Or how fast he could kill someone with his sword.  Maybe Fenris would give him some pointers?  Carver glanced back at where he walked next to Mags, slouching and pointedly not looking at the redheaded woman.   Not that Mags looked at him, either.  Andraste's Ass, this was going to get old.  Maybe Aveline could beat some sense into his sister.  She usually did.  Mags adjusted the pack on her back and shot another glare at the elf.  Or maybe not.  Carver took the steps to the Viscount's Keep two at a time. 

Obviously, Aveline was busy.  Carver leaned against the wall out of the way and waited for his sister to get the guardswoman's attention.  He was surprised when she came over right away.  "What can I do for you, Hawke?"

"We... have a bit of a situation, Aveline.  We might not want to discuss it... here," Mags looked around the barracks and rather more pointedly at the guards who were attempting to listen in without being caught.  

Aveline followed her gaze.  "Hmm, quite.  Let's go outside.  I'm due to start patrol in Lowtown.  Nothing says I can't go a little early."  The taller red-head glanced at Fenris.  "I see you decided to join Hawke?" 

"She's offered me a place in her expedition, actually," he responded mildly, one black eyebrow quirking upward.

Carver clenched his jaw.  While not entirely unexpected, it would have been nice to be consulted before Mags started inviting every misfit they came across.  At least Fenris knew which end of a blade to stick in the bad guys.  Even if he did seem to watch Mags' backside a little too much.  Though Carver knew that wasn't any of his business and if Mags knew he was even worrying about it, she'd punch him. 

Or set his smallclothes on fire, Templars be damned. 

He cleared his throat, "Good to have another fighter, then."  Fenris merely looked at him from under those jet black eyebrows and Carver got the distinct impression he hadn't passed whatever scale Fenris was using to measure him.  

"Glad you approve."  His tone was bored.  Carver clenched his jaw. "Hawke, don't we need to meet the others somewhere?" 

His sister's green eyes moved from Aveline to Fenris'.  _Figures, never even looked in my direction._  "You're right.  It's getting late.  I'd at least like to get to Sundermount before dark." 

Outside, Mags and Aveline walked ahead of both him and Fenris.  "Where did you train, Fenris?"

Fenris gave Carver an unfriendly sidelong look.  "What does it matter?"

"I -- guess it doesn't."  Carver shrugged, feeling his face turn red under the hostile glare. "I just thought I'd make conversation." 

"Are you worried about my competence with a blade, perhaps?"  There was a menacing undertone to Fenris' gravelly voice.  "Concerned I will put your life or that of your sisters' in jeopardy?"

"Oh, piss on it!" Carver's blush deepened and he rubbed the back of his neck, looking away.  "Forget I said anything!" 

"Done." 

The irascible warrior went back to watching the sneering nobles as they passed.  "Blast it.  I'm not worried about your competence.  I'm worried about _mine_." Carver muttered under his breath, glaring at a particularly overdressed nobleman who stopped to stare at admiringly at him, the plumes in his hat bobbing as his head followed their progress.

He was paying more attention to their surroundings and the idiot, sneering, staring nobles to notice when Aveline and Mags had stopped short.  He nearly tread on Hopper's paw.  The mabari gave him a dirty look and sidled away.  Carver rolled his eyes and ignored the dog's grumble.  Mags and Aveline had stopped to check the Chanter's board.  There was never anything on it.  He didn't know why they bothered.  Though today, there appeared to be an announcement with a stark-white fletched arrow directly through the center of the parchment pinning it to the board.  That couldn't have been an easy thing to accomplish.  He huffed in appreciation, but found himself rather tired of watching the two red-heads discuss the announcement without including him.  He crossed his arms and let his eyes wander the square.  A young woman, rather pretty, if you found the buxom, fair-haired milk-maid type attractive, which he generally did, was walking over to every Templar she could find outside of the Chantry and asking the same question, "Excuse me, Ser, have you seen my brother?"

Most of them looked her over, their heads bobbing and their very carriage reflecting their sneer hidden behind their face plate.  One actually deigned to respond.  "Your brother have a name?"

"Keran, Ser, he's a recruit?"

The Templar gave a metallic snort from inside his helmet.  "This is Kirkwall.  Do you have any idea how many Templars there are?"

Carver glanced over his shoulder at his sister and Aveline and decided they'd be there a while.  Maybe this girl just needed directions.  Something short and easy.  Maybe he could buy her a drink, after.  Or, maybe she had coin for a job.  Mags might actually thank him for that.

Though, not if it brought them into contact with the Templars.

Wouldn't hurt to ask, though.  He cautiously approached her, her shoulders slumped in despair.  The young woman – girl?  Stood there, wringing her slender fingers, plainly out of ideas of what to do next. "Hullo.  Um, Hawke.  Carver Hawke.  Are you alright?"

"Oh!  Um, you're not a Templar, are you?"

"No, I'm afraid not.  But, we're uh, good at finding people.  Assuming they're not in The Gallows."

"Oh, I’m sure he's not.  You see, he's very devout.  I begged him not to join, but he wouldn't hear of it and he was so happy when they accepted him."  She looked around, her expression growing more frightened.  Carver frowned, hearing his sister approach.  "You hear such dark things about the Templars and Knight-Commander Meredith.  And now, Keran is gone."

Mags cleared her throat, "What do people say about the Good Knight-Commander?"

"She keeps the mages in check.  She's utterly without pity or compassion and she sees demons everywhere."  The girl ducked her head.  "My name is Macha, by the way.  It's dangerous to even whisper such things, even here in front of the Chantry."  She looked around and stepped closer.  "The Templars do as they will with her full blessing.  They harass passersby, people simply accused of harboring escaped mages just disappear.  My cousin has a friend who was a mage.  She says he was made Tranquil against his will."

Carver put his hand up to keep Mags from responding.  He knew exactly what she'd say.  In front of the Chantry was no place to start lambasting the Knight-Commander of the bloody damned city.  Maybe it was a good thing they were going to leave for Sundermount tonight.  "Tell us what happened.  We're here to help."

Macha told them of her brother's sudden silence and how repeated attempts to contact him were returned unopened and how she was even thrown out of the Gallows.  Aveline stepped forward, "Did he have friends who might know of his whereabouts that you did not get a chance to speak with?"

Macha nodded. "His closest friends were a couple of recruits, Wilmod and Hugh.  His letters were always full of those two.  If anyone knows anything, they do.  Maker Bless you and watch over you.  All of you.  Thank you." She turned and ran up the steps into the Chantry.  Abruptly, she stopped and turned back long enough to shout, "I-I'm going to go pray for your success!"  Before sprinting up the stairs to the large golden doors.

Carver scrubbed at his face.  "So um... what in name of Maferath's hairy ball sack was _that_ , Carver?"  He opened his eyes to find his much shorter older sister staring up at him.  "Aren't you the one always telling me to -- oh, I dunno... avoid the fucking Templars?  And now we're going to go track one down?  For all you know, he's balling his brains out at the fucking Blooming Rose and is going to be hung for desertion!"  Somehow, Mags always found a way to dress him down without raising her voice.  It was a talent.

He opened his mouth to respond in kind but she put up an imperious finger at him and said "Shush!  Aveline, think we can get to Gallows, The Hanged Man and then Sundermount before sundown?"

Aveline glared at him, too.  Carver ground his teeth.  "No.  The last ferry was five minutes ago and the Knight-Commander stops allowing visitors."

Maggie stared up at the Chantry.  Carver crossed his arms and glared at her.  "There has to be something we can do."

"Not if we want to be on Sundermount before moonrise.  Sorry, Brother.  Your need to rescue a damsel in distress will have to wait ‘til we get back."  She crossed to stand in front of him.  As always, the fact that he towered over Maggie never ceased to amuse him.  "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Of course, when she apologized, it usually surprised the hell out of him. "I, um.  It's ok.  We wanted to avoid attention by the Templars, and this'll bring it right to us."  He rubbed the back of his neck.  "And I didn't think she was a damsel in distress.  I kinda hope she'll pay us if we find her brother."

Maggie nodded, her mouth turning down slightly as she hit him on the arm.  "Well, um, good.”  She smiled suddenly, her eyes widening at him. “But now I'm disappointed."  She threw the last part over her shoulder as she turned to go.  He frowned at her.  "I can't tease you about trying to rescue pretty girls for the rest of the night."

"Andraste's _tits_ , Mags!" he rolled his eyes as he fell in behind her, Aveline's laughter as she caught up to his sister ringing in his ears.

 

* * *

 

Carver stood with his arms crossed in the corner of Varric's suite in the rear of the Hanged Man, listening to his sister and dwarf attempt to sort out who was going with whom.  The tall man who claimed to be a Grey Warden watched Mags with a barely concealed intensity that bordered on the creepy.  Carver would have said something, except that the elf, Fenris, glowered at the “Grey Warden” enough for both of them. 

Not that Mags would like any of them to interfere in things she wouldn't consider their business.  He'd prefer not to be turned into a toad.  He was never really sure if that threat of hers were possible, but if it could be done, Margaret Hawke would find a way.

"All right, Varric, if you think you can handle things with Isabela, Aveline, and Beth, I'll take Hopper with me, Carver and Fenris."  Mags ran her fingers through her thick red curls, stifling a yawn. 

"You're going to be short anyone who can pick any locks, you know," Varric pointed out, looking up at her.

Mags shrugged.  "I doubt there'll be a great many locked doors in the middle of nowhere that need to be picked, Varric."

Isabela propped her arm on Mags' shoulder, angling her taller frame to better glance down the front of Mags' padded vest.  Carver rolled his eyes.  "We're not just here for breaking and entering, Sweet Thing.  We're here to keep knives out of your pretty back, too."

Mags laughed, putting her arm around Isabela’s waist in response.   "And that's why I'm sending you with Beth.  Keep her safe for me, would you?"  She suddenly sobered and Carver felt his own eyes drawn to where Aveline sat with Beth between her knees, braiding his older twin's hair.  "Don't let the Templars get her." 

Beth stuck her tongue out at Mags. "I am perfectly capable of staying away from Templars all by myself, Sister." 

"And it's my prerogative to worry," the oldest Hawke pointed out.

Aveline raised an eyebrow as she tied off the braid.  "And you worry too much."

Mags snorted.  "Pot calling the kettle black?"

"I'm paid to worry.  You do it freelance."  The guardswoman tapped Beth on the shoulder and Carver held out a hand to help his sister to her feet.  Aveline rose behind her, straightening her own padded vest. "I am supposed to be on patrol.  I'll meet you here after dark and we'll head for the Chantry.  I'd really rather not give Jeven any more reason to censure me than he already has."

Carver snorted.  "Isn't the reason you're Ferelden enough?"

Aveline gave him a flat look, "Just so.  Perhaps you think I should give him more reasons?  Like push for your application to join?"

Carver felt the heat rush to his face, as all eyes turned to him.  "Of course not!  I --"

Her brown eyes met his steadily.  "You don't even like taking Hawke's orders and she pays you more than being a guard would.  Trust me, you don't want this uniform."

Carver felt his heart race and his stomach twist at the injustice.  How could she not understand why he'd applied?  It was for the same reason she had!  It wasn't for the money!  It was to make his own name, to get out from under his sister's thumb!  He glared impartially around the suite to only meet surprised looks or in Mags' and Beth's cases, sympathy.  He could only grit his teeth and let out an incoherent growl at Aveline before spinning on his boot heel and stomping angrily from Varric's suite to head for the tap room.  Maybe a pint of Corff's swill would squash the urge to punch something.  Or yell at Aveline.  Which would just get him punched. 

Could this day possibly get worse?

 

* * *

 

The Chantry liked to claim the Maker had turned from the world.  Carver was beginning to think that perhaps He occasionally cast His attention back just mess with a few of his less well-liked subjects.  As in threatening to make it rain buckets while they tromped through acres of mud to get out of the city and to the hills that lined the coast.  Sundermount was more of a series of hills that culminated in a really big hill. 

All right, it really was a mountain.  But it was the only mountain Carver had ever heard of that didn't have any others around it. Mags paused on an outcropping to look back out over Kirkwall, the wind whipping her damp hair free from the tail she'd tied it into.  He glanced at Fenris and caught the other man staring at his sister as if entranced.  Carver crossed his arms and looked from Fenris to Mags.  He had to admit, even if he wasn't particularly poetic, it was a striking image.  Mags standing on the precipice of the cliff, buffeted by the wind, hair streaming, the gloom of the twilight and oncoming storm casting her features in shadow.  No one but her dog next to her.  But at her back, poised to either pull her from the brink or shove her over, stood Fenris.  His tattoos glowing softly in the half-light, casting back the shadows Mags stood in.  The elf must have said something to her that the wind snatched out of Carver's hearing and she turned her head to reply. The dim light radiating from the lyrium under Fenris' skin gave her features a soft cast and Carver clenched his teeth.  _By Andraste’s frilly knickers, I hope you know what you're doing, Mags._

The hair on his arms and the back of his head rose to stand at attention, suddenly.  Hopper scrambled away from Mags and with a swiftness he'd only seen the elf exhibit in a fight, Fenris yanked Mags away from the cliff face and threw them both backward toward him.  Before he could react, the doused-in-cold-water feeling of Mags' magic washed over him and he had to shield his eyes from a flash of agonizingly bright light.  The sound of rock somehow exploding was nearly deafening.

Carver blinked up at the iron-grey sky, trying to relearn how to breathe.  "Carver?  Carver!" Mags' voice.  Her face appeared above him, her green eyes wide.  He sucked in enough air to cough and rolled away from her. 

 "I'm fine," he rasped. 

 "By the Maker!"  A new voice, heavily accented with Starkhaven's brogue seemed to come from somewhere behind him.  Carver awkwardly pulled himself to his feet and found Fenris helping his sister to hers and Hopper standing warily in front of the newcomer.  Clad in shining white armor that stood out in the gloom of the impending storm, a tall, bronzed-skin, auburn haired man stood a few feet away, giving the mabari a respectful distance.  "Are all of you all right?"

 "Thank you, Messere.  We are quite all right.  Just a ... bit shaken, I think.  It appears my bad luck extends to lightning, as well."  Carver couldn't help the snort that escaped him.  Mags glanced back at him, one eyebrow raised.  He merely met her eyes and crossed his arms.

 “I … see,” the strange man in the glaring white armor stated.  “Not many people venture onto Sundermount in the face of an oncoming storm.”  Carver surreptitiously eased his scabbard higher on his shoulder, pretending it had gotten dislodged in his fall.  The stranger still had his arrow nocked and drawn.  Fenris, however, wasn’t even bothering to be subtle; he held his naked two-handed blade openly. 

Mags glanced at the sky.  “I assure you, we don’t really have much of a choice.  We’re on sort of a deadline.”  She squinted at the sky before turning back to the archer.  “Is there a particular reason you have an arrow all but pointed at us?”

The Starkhavener -- Starkhavenite? -- blushed pink beneath his dark skin and dropped his eyes to the point of his bow, but didn’t waver.  “Truth be told, I am hunting for those responsible for the deaths of my family.  My kin were slaughtered, down to the smallest babe-in-arms.”  Carver felt his gut twist in sympathy for the man.  Bright blue eyes rose and met Mags’.  “And I will have justice.  But if I cannot have that, vengeance will do.”

Carver glanced at his sister as she stepped past Fenris, ignoring the elf’s attempt to stop her.  “So, you’re the one with the notice on the Chantry Board.”

“And you are not members of the Flint Company mercenaries,” he stated, finally lowering his bow.  Carver took his first full breath since the lightning struck the hillside. 

“No, but we’d be happy to assist you with them.  Four against a whole company is better odds than one, don’t you agree?”  Carver scrubbed at his face with his hands.  She couldn’t help it.  She really couldn’t.  Present her with a new person and she flirted, her head tilted and she looked up at the taller man through the stray hair the wind blew across her forehead, a smile on her lips.  Carver dropped his hands and walked closer to her to try to remind her they needed to hurry. 

Another flash of lightning illuminated the stranger’s broad grin and sigh of relief. “I do agree, though I despaired of anyone taking my posting.  Sebastian Vael. You may call me Sebastian.  And you are?”  The name Vael tugged at Carver’s memory, but at the moment, he wasn’t able to think of why it sounded familiar.

“Hawke, Margaret Hawke.  This is my brother, Carver.  And this is my, er… Fenris.  And the mabari is named Hopper.”   Mags glanced at the sky and finally met Carver’s eyes. 

“Mags, we need to go.  Now.”  Suiting actions to words, he picked up her pack and her staff and handed them to her.

She sighed, taking both from him.  “I know, Carver, we need to get to the Dalish.  Well, Mess -- er, Sebastian… I would hate for the Flint Company to find you out here by yourself.  Would you care to accompany us?  We’ll keep an eye out for the mercs on the way up the slope.”

 “I suppose I do not have a say in this?”  Fenris’ teeth were clenched. 

Carver wanted to tear his hair out in frustration.  Especially when, instead of voicing his concerns aloud, Fenris drew Mags away and left Carver standing awkwardly with Sebastian.  “I’m… sorry about your family.”

 “My thanks.” Sebastian looked off into the distance, toward Kirkwall, a slight nod acknowledging Carver’s sympathy.

 Carver cleared his throat.  “I was at Ostagar.”  He crossed his arms when the archer’s pale blue eyes turned to him.  “My entire unit… all my friends…. The darkspawn killed all of them.  If it weren’t for Mags, er, _Hawke_ , they’d have killed all of us.  If anyone can help you, she… _we_ can.”

 “I -- thank you.  I hope you are correct.”

 The sound of Mags’ and Fenris’ boots on the dry grass announced their return. “Vael, you said?”  She demanded, her voice sharp.  Carver frowned, glancing from his sister to Fenris to Sebastian.

“Aye, that is my family’s name.”  Sebastian’s tone was mild.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Fenris growled. “I suppose you are related to the ruling family of Starkhaven?” 

“I am.”  Carver stood waiting, confusion holding his limbs still, waiting for someone to explain what was going on.  Sebastian continued, “I do apologize.  I left my title off the announcement for a reason.”

Mags nodded with a sidelong look at Fenris.  “I can guess why.  Too many curiosity seekers and well, the nobility is a cesspool even when you’re not down on your luck.  Minor cousin or…?”

Sebastian blinked rapidly and glanced away.  He cleared his throat.  “I do not mean to give the wrong impression.  The family that was murdered was the ruling house of Starkhaven.  I am the sole heir.”

“Well, now, that’s just what we wanted to hear, Your Highness,” a heavily Orlesian accented voice interrupted. 

Carver’s sword was in his hand instantaneously and he closed ranks with the Mabari, Fenris and Mags.  The Prince scrambled to join them, turning to aim his bow at the well-equipped mercenaries melting out of the foliage and emerging from behind rocks.  “Flint Company, I presume?”  Mags demanded.  Carver felt her hand twitch against his leg in their old signal for fireball.  _Shit._

“Captain De Beauville, at your service, messere.  And you might be?” The captain was an odious-looking man with a too-big hat with too many feathers and an oiled mustache perched over narrow lips.  He also seemed to be the shortest of his men, of which there were ten.  Not particularly good odds.

Well, if they didn’t have magebane, Mags could take out most of them.  If they politely stood still and let her immolate them.  "Absolutely no one," Mags told them.  "Just a concerned citizen of the Free Marches, rendering aid to a stranded traveler."

"You must think me an imbecile, messere, to buy such a story."  The man with the feathers sniffed.  He made a circling motion with his gauntleted fist.

Mags cleared her throat and twisted her wrist at her side.  Carver knew that innocuous signal.  That was for Hopper.  The Mabari crouched, his great head sweeping from side to side, searching for the archer the single noise meant.  Two meant mage.  Three meant get help.  Carver picked his own target.  Feathers was going down.  "Not an imbecile, Messere.  Unobservant."  She yanked her staff around to the front of her body and twisted in the movement that would bring own a rain of fire from the sky.

Feathers' eyes widened. "Sacred Andraste!  An apostate!  Kill her!"

"Dammit, Hawke," Fenris growled.  Carver couldn't agree more.

Hopper launched himself at an archer taking aim at Mags and Carver sprinted toward Feathers, but not before the Captain's shield went up to deflect one of Sebastian's arrows.  Carver took advantage of the man's focus on the prince to go in low and hack at his shins, nearly shattering the man's leg with the blunt edge of his two-handed blade.  Carver spun, deflecting another fighter's sword and got rid of that one simply by punching him in the nose and breaking the bridge.  Distracted by the agony blossoming behind his eyes, the merc dropped his blade and clutched his face, screaming, falling out of the fight.

Carver continued his turn, but Feathers was ready for him.  Not that it mattered.  Feathers wasn't ready for Carver's type of fighting.  Feathers was used to opponents in tourneys and marks who rolled over easy.  Carver took a hit with the shield and it staggered him, but he'd felt worse from darkspawn.  He shoved back and punched the Captain in the face, this time with hand holding the hilt of his sword.  At least this jackass didn't cry about a broken nose.  He let the blood go and charged Carver again.  But Carver ducked and took the hit on his shielded shoulder, hard enough to hear it crack.  The smaller man staggered back and Carver grinned.

Advancing, Carver swung his blade over hand and connected with the remains of Feathers' shield, splintering it and breaking the arm under it.  Feathers collapsed to his knees and screamed, clutching at his arm.  A white-fletched arrow sprung from his throat, cutting off his screams.  Carver was almost sorry to have it ended so quickly.  "He was mine!"

"He killed my family!"

"He threatened my sister!"  Carver bashed another merc over the head with the flat of his blade.  Sebastian shot him in the heart.

"He murdered my infant niece!"

"He was going to turn her in for the bounty on mages!"  Sebastian shot one in the gut, Carver decapitated the same one.

Fenris' ragged voice and Hopper's anguished growl brought Carver out of his competitive rage.  "Hawke!"

 Carver and Sebastian spun to find Mags standing with her hands up, five archers with extremely long bows trained on her.  In front them, three warriors with blades drawn held them at Mags' chest.  Not a single mercenary still stood, but these archers and warriors weren't mercenaries.

They were Dalish.  Their pointed ears and tattoos were still very much visible in the swiftly fading light.  Slowly, Mags carefully laid her staff on the ground and straightened up.  Carver swallowed, hoping she remembered the phrase exactly as they were told to say it.  He _knew_ they should have brought Aveline or Beth.  Their memories were so much better.  "Clan Sabrae, I come in search of the _Atish'all Vir Athiminar_   _*_ , in order to fulfill _Halam'shivanas_ _**_  .  In the name of Asha’belannar herself, I ask safe passage for myself, my companions and my mabari to speak with your Keeper."

There were gasps, of course.  One of them from Sebastian.  Carver nudged him and shook his head.  Under his breath he told the prince, "It’s safer for all of us if you just play along right now."

"That appears to be the wisest course of action, yes."  Hands up, Sebastian mimicked Mags and carefully lowered his bow to the ground, not taking his eyes off the Dalish archers the entire time.  A few of the elves conferred among themselves, arguing animatedly.

Carver followed suit, also laying his blade down.  He glanced over at Fenris.  He'd laid his own weapons down but was standing with his fists clenched and was clearly poised to charge toward Mags.  Hopper, on the other hand, was seated at her side, panting hard, tongue lolling.  Hopper had decided the elves weren't a threat.  Carver was more inclined to trust Fenris' judgement on the matter.

 After the short conference, one of the Dalish stepped forward.  "We will take your weapons.  And you, mage, will not use magic or we will kill your companions."

"So much for the vaunted Dalish tolerance for magic.  She is injured!"  Fenris snarled.  Carver's heart leaped into his throat and he took an involuntary step forward, only to find half the arrows suddenly trained on him.  "You will not allow her to heal herself?"

The leader met Fenris' eyes steadily.  "No, I will not.  We have no mages among us right now to counter her and I will trust no Shem's magic, _round ear_."  Fenris started forward with a snarl.

Mags was spun around and a knife held to her throat to stop him.  He froze.  "Fenris, please.  I'll be alright."  Carver finally understood why Hopper hadn't acted.  Her hand was out in the pacification gesture that told the dog to be still and wait.  He should have known when the Mabari's stub wasn't wagging he was no more relaxed than anyone else.

"No, you won't.  You're losing blood!"

"Then the faster we get to the Keeper, the faster your master will be Healed, _round ear_."  The woman's voice was deliberately taunting.  Carver was surprised Fenris didn't sprint across the distance and take her heart immediately.

"She is not--!"

"I'm not his master!  I am his friend!  And yes, I am losing blood.  Can we please get going before I faint?”

Carver nearly jumped to grab Sebastian as the other man stepped forward, his hands palms out.  "Might I at least give the lady a healing draught?  Stop her bleeding?  We would travel faster."

One of the Dalish stepped forward, a scowl on her?  His? Face.  Carver was having a little trouble telling the men from the women, except from their voices.  Their armor rendered them all rather androgynous.  "You will not!  Her wound will not kill her before our destination.  Pol!  Get their weapons!  Let's go!"

A rather scrawny red-haired elf with the sides of his (her?) head shaved nervously darted forward and grabbed Mags’ staff, Fenris’ sword, then ran over and grabbed the bow and quiver and Carver’s own blade.  Pol retreated, almost afraid to turn his back on the group and in his haste, nearly tripped over the blades he carried.  Carver clenched his teeth and with moving his mouth as little as possible, muttered to Sebastian, “Please tell me that somewhere along the way in your royal training, you learned how to hide a dozen or so daggers somewhere in all that shiny white armor?”

Without looking at him, Sebastian put his hands on his head as they were commanded to by the Dalish.  “The Maker will provide.” 

Carver rolled his eyes.  “The Maker had better provide us a way out of this.  I really don’t want to see what a dragon is gonna do to this mountain.”  Sebastian shot him a startled look over his shoulder.  Carver glared at him and as the Dalish closed ranks around them, he tried to push his way forward to see Mags, concern for his sister overriding his annoyance at the would-be Prince.  He got the butt-end of a bow in the gut for his trouble. He doubled over, grunting, but was pushed from behind until he caught his feet again, walking next to Sebastian.  At least he could still see Fenris' white hair.  And the bubble of emptiness that meant the Dalish were giving Hopper a wide berth.

Fortunately, they were right.  Their camp wasn't far.  Anxiety gripped him as he strained his neck, trying to see over the crowd to find Mags’ bright hair.  _Had she lost too much blood?  Was she still walking on her own?_   The elves parted and shoved him and Sebastian through a funnel lined with arrows and blades. The slight elf named Pol stumbled forward to drop their weapons at an older elf's feet.  He then turned and ran off, away from the crowd. 

The older woman drew Carver’s attention back.  There was no mistaking her femininity or her authority.  She inclined her head at them, then frowned.  Carver followed her gaze to find his sister leaning heavily on Fenris, Perrin pacing anxiously at her feet.  “Why was this woman not treated for her injuries?”

“She is a mage, Keeper Marethari.  We caught them fighting attackers at our borders and felt it best to bring them here before their reinforcements could arrive.”  The leader Carver still couldn’t assign a gender to outside of her voice stepped forward and bowed her head at the older woman.

The Keeper clicked her tongue.  “And you are too exhausted to Heal yourself, yes?”

Mags lifted her head from Fenris’ shoulder and Carver’s breath hissed through his teeth at how pale she looked.  He tried to take a step forward but an iron hard grip on his biceps from his left and a sword digging into his ribcage on his right stopped him.   “Well, I’m not terribly good at it to begin with.”  He glanced back to glare at Sebastian.  But the other man’s eyes were riveted on Mags. 

The Keeper chuckled.  “It takes a strong soul to admit to one’s failings.”  She held out hands wrinkled and twisted by advanced age.  “If I may?” 

Carver watched as Mags glanced at Fenris and saw the muscles in the warrior’s jaw work as he clenched his teeth.  He gave a short nod and helped Mags stand up straighter, though she was still leaning on him.  Perrin gave a short whine and flattened himself into the grass, as if to show he would not interfere.  Marethari crossed to his sister and placed her hands on either side of her face.  He blinked, realizing they were nearly the same height.  _Andraste, please let me have plenty of opportunities to tease her about being as short as a Dalish Keeper in the very near future._   Mags stiffened, her eyes rolling back in her head, Fenris being forced to take more of her weight as the Healing took effect.  She breathed heavily and rapidly out of her nose, unwilling to cry out.  Having been the recipient of her own Healing many times, Carver knew exactly how much that had to hurt.  Mags’ healing was rarely all that gentle either.  Beth’s was slightly better, and Father’s had been better still, but… _ouch_.

When Marethari released her, Mags’ knees seemed to give out.  Carver had no choice but to stand still and let Fenris take care of her.  He ground his teeth as she leaned on him, her hand reaching up to pat him on the chest, murmuring something that made him shake his head.  “Your sister certainly inspires loyalty,” Sebastian stated quietly.

“I hope that’s all she --”  He froze as the crowd around Marethari stirred and parted.  Even with his greater height, he couldn’t see why, though he lifted his chin to try to see just a little father.

He saw dark hair first.  Short dark brown, almost black, hair pulled into several loose little tails as if she were just trying to keep it out of her face and off her delicately pointed ears, not as if she were trying to style it in any sort of fashion.  The intricate whorls of her tattoos accented her wide green eyes and high cheekbones, making her seem almost startled.  Her thin eyebrows drew down to her narrow, perfect nose which perched above lips that seemed just a little too full for her face, but still fit all the same.  She raised a graceful hand, each long finger tipped in dark red, to touch one of the Dalish hunters.  The woman shied back as if she’d been burned.  The dark-haired woman flushed pink and dropped her eyes briefly, but continued forward, her dainty chin held high.  And then she spoke and Carver felt the world drop out from under his feet and spin over top his head.

“Keeper, Pol told me we had visitors.  Is there something I can help with?” The younger woman stood as tall as the Keeper, which made her about the same height as Mags.  She wore a dark green surcoat over well-made chain-and-leather armor.  A staff taller than he was hung from a thong off her back. Carver blinked.

She might be tiny.  But clearly, only an idiot underestimated her.  The Prince leaned over to hiss, “Carver, close your mouth.” Carver’s teeth clicked shut with a glare at Sebastian who’s only response was a raised eyebrow.

Marethari barely took her eyes off Mags as his sister pulled herself to her feet with Fenris’ help.  She nodded a short acknowledgement to the younger woman.  “Merrill.  It seems our visitors must be taken to the _Atish'all Vir Athiminar_   and quickly.”  Marthari held her hand out to Mags.  “Time is running short, as you know.  Formalities will be addressed when you return.  My First, Merrill, will see you up the mountain on the fastest path.  It isn’t the path our hunters take, not being truly safe, but it will let you arrive in the allotted time.  Now, hurry.  Retrieve your weapons and go.  Asha’belannar is not a patient woman.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Atish'all Vir Athiminar: I felt the action of "resurrecting" Flemythal needed a formal name, so.... I cobbled that together from "Well of Sorrows" and "Peace."
> 
> ** Halam'shivanas: "Sweet Sacrifice of Duty" closest to the word "obligation" I could find.


End file.
